


Fifty Shades of Ferelden

by Apostitutes



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: A little angst, Early Skyhold, Fan Fiction within Fan Fiction, Friendship/Love, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mystery solving, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-03-10 13:18:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3291746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apostitutes/pseuds/Apostitutes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A strange manuscript "accidentally" finds its way into one of Dorian's tomes. </p><p>(Rated Mature for later discoveries.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Discovery

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at fan fiction and I haven't written for anyone else's eyes in quite some time. 
> 
> Also, I own no characters of Bioware and, if they actually ever read this and decide to take offense, I have a small message:
> 
> Hi Bioware,
> 
> I apologise for any misuse of your puppets but this is the internet.
> 
> Love your work to death,  
> Ren xxx
> 
> P.s No Shepard without Vakarian. What the hell was that ending about?

 

‘ _The Inquirer was in a sticky situation this time around. There was no escaping the wrought iron chains and the evil undead that stumbled around at his captor’s bidding. The elf had been stripped down to his breech cloth; to check for any concealed weapons and partly for the theatricals. Then, he had woken up here. Stolen in the night by persons unknown, strapped into a chair and kept in a room that looked like it belonged in every dungeon he had ever quested through. Which was quite a lot._

_It was difficult to tell long he had been tied up. Hours? Days? It was all a blur. As for the kidnapper’s identity, not everyone adored him and he had many enemies to pick from. Many, many enemies who wanted him removed in the most creative and gory ways possible. But the betrayal came from far closer than he had expected._

_Booming laughter sounded from above as the bronzed Magister descended the stairs, a finger curling around the crook of his mustache as he surveyed his plunder. The elf was lured into his honey trap with the promise of friendship and now that trap had shut. He had his prize._

_The Inquirer's breath stilled as the necromancer drew closer. Beads of sweat ran down from his brow, his energy to fight dulled by several days of futile straining against the shackles. His wrists raw from the effort. Cold fingers raked through the elf's blond locks and trailed down his neck as his conqueror moved to stand behind him. He shivered at the rush of sensation, it was more than welcome against feverish skin and he felt himself lean into it almost instinctively._

_"Sweet Harbinger, you had no idea did you?" The mage spoke with satisfaction, "You were too busy trying to save the world one mud covered refugee at a time. So trusting and eager to please."_

_Magister Pavo dipped down to brush his hand against the exposed, porcelain flesh between the elf's neck and pectorals. Chuckling as the prey grew tense at the touch. Then, he leant closer and dipped his voice into a sultry caress against the Inquirer's ear._

"Though the latter is something I can work with.”’

~~~

Dorian couldn't quite believe what he was reading. One moment he was studying a tome on the many uses of lyrium dust and then it had spilled into, what he suspected were, Mother Giselle's night terrors in literary form. None of which had any foundation, other than the casual flirting that was a second or third language to the Inquisition's notable members. It was common knowledge that Dorian was one of the most shameless flirts of them all, but he took care to distribute his charms equally among the sexes. Old wounds still ached after all and he had always lived on the better side of caution to avoid new ones. However, he had found himself wanting things he had sworn to abstain from during his prolonged stay in Ferelden.

Inquisitor Lavellan had shown no interest in him, of course, other than to fulfill his compulsive need to fuss over every member of his inner circle. The flirtations were hollow banter, nothing more. The elf showed more romantic interest towards his seed collection than Dorian. The Red Hart held a higher esteem. Actually, that was rather unfair, he was just exaggerating and feeling sorry for himself. How absurdly bitter he had become.

He pulled the page from the book and eyed the current occupants of the library with suspicion. Someone was taking this evil magister business far too literally. But to what end? Maybe a cheap laugh at his expense? His mind stuck briefly on blackmail. But, despite the familiar panic rising in the pit of his stomach, he assured himself he hadn't made any mistakes yet. As far as he could tell, he wasn't being watched.

The tranquil girl was above suspicion. At her jars again, filled to the brim with whatever claws and grisly souvenirs the Herald brought back from their latest romp through the Ferelden muck. He was fairly certain it wasn't Fiona, that woman had no time to care about anything but her own brooding. Solas? Dorian let out a small laugh at the prospect. True, the folically challenged hermit had often frowned at him when his repartee with Lavellan had proved less than savoury. But to pen this drivel? No, disapproving glances spoke volumes for the man, everything was behind closed doors and slightly disturbing murals. Then, the spymaster above? He leant slightly out of his chair to see if there was anyone peering over the banister, someone keeping an eye on his discovery and reporting back. No, the only eyes on him belonged to those ghastly crows who disturbed his reading with their incessant shrieking. Besides, he hoped that this affair was far too trivial for someone who could sabotage an entire clan from the inside with a single well placed note.

Wait, of course. How could he be so blind? The dwarf was a self-proclaimed author, namely to those appalling novels that Cassandra crooned over and a few others he swore never to read. This kind of prank was entirely his style.


	2. Author

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little chat with Varric that doesn't go entirely to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit longer this time. I think the length will depend on the scene. 
> 
> Also, I found out that Pavus means Peacock in Latin and that made me extremely happy.

 

Dorian found Varric in the most obvious place he knew to look. The fireplace in the throne hall was his typical haunting ground; if not there, it was that unkempt tavern. He sat in his favourite chair surrounded by his correspondences, his literature (if you could call it that), and the infamous crossbow propped up within an arm’s reach. That particular relationship with the inanimate object was still as unhealthy as ever. He often used it as a cautionary tale in case he never managed to move on. Maker forbid he start calling his mage staff after Lavellan, lavishing it with care, polishing the crystal, rubbing oil onto the wood-

Well, that trailed off into a disturbing place. Which was exactly the point. Not healthy.

As he approached it occurred to Dorian that, even in Haven, Varric seemed to gravitate towards the campfire. It was only logical he supposed, if you insisted on keeping your shirt draped open all day. The chest carpet the dwarf was sporting could only do so much when it came to keeping out the cold.

He stopped before meeting the rug. No time for pleasantries, “Varric, have you been writing anything new?” He asked without introduction.

Varric turned in his seat to look at him, setting aside his raven quill and smiling, “I’m surprised Sparkler. I didn’t peg you down as one of my adoring fans.” He was always prepared with defensive wit.

Dorian grimaced at the thought, “No! Fasta vass, far from it. A draft of… something found its way into one of my books and I want you to cease production. Immediately. Or I will be forced to come up with a creative way to remove its author from existence.”

"You know I would love to take credit for something that ruffles you up like that. But, sadly, I’m on hiatus until the Inquisition stops the world from breaking into tiny pieces.”

Dorian was surprised to hear denial from him, “But, you have been known to write this type of-” No. he wasn’t going to elaborate, “I have, albeit begrudgingly, read parts of your work. Does your Captain friend know exactly what you’ve done with her likeness?”

Varric smirked in that carefree way he used far too often in sensitive situations, “I may have received a very strongly worded letter and a few death threats should I ever return to Kirkwall. But that’s part of the territory. Not everyone is a fan.”

This was the reason why Varric was the most likely suspect; he had previous form.

But Dorian had to be more concise if he was ever going to get a real answer out of him, “That’s exactly what I mean. You have been known to use your friends and acquaintances as fodder for your stories. Have you ‘borrowed’ anyone in the Inquisition yet?”

The dwarf was intrigued with where this was going and decided, at this point, to rise from the chair, “Not yet, why? Did you want me to ghost write your memoirs?”  

“No, but when I want to read a completely garnished and nonsensical version of my life’s story I’ll let you know. So, to the point, do you deny planting anything unpleasant in my tomes?” Dorian asked.

Varric let out a dragged sigh, “Now, there’s a perfectly good joke I’m going to let go for the sake of friendship. No, I didn’t meddle with your dusty tomes.”

“Then, who else could write something like this?” Dorian gestured to the page in question, but withdrew it when Varric tried to take it from him. He then folded it in half to make sure it was unreadable.

“Like what?” Varric asked, “I couldn't tell you either way if you won't even let me read it.”  
  
Dorian hesitated. “It’s...” No, too risky. He couldn’t let this incident echo back to the Inquisitor; things would unravel and that was something he wasn’t prepared for yet, if ever, “Nothing. If you didn’t write it, then allow me to find the one who did so I can promptly relieve them of their eyebrows.”

Varric wouldn’t let it go, “Are you sure I can’t help? You’re talking to the in-house expert here.”

Dorian was adamant on this now, “Quite sure thank you. I would rather not have my affairs distributed amongst the people like crumbs to the birds.” Gossip seemed to fuel the inquisition better than food ever did.

“Hey, I can be discreet.” Varric argued, but there was a small crook in his lips as he said it.

Dorian gave him a disparaging look.

“I can!” He insisted.

Dorian conceded a little, it was only polite, “Thinly veiled slander, if you must know. Thank you for the offer but it’s nothing that I can’t take care of.” He pre-empted the next reply, “ **By Myself**.”

Dorian turned to walk away but there he was. Almost on cue, the elf Dorian was determined to keep out of this business was walking over to them. But that was the Inquisitor’s second nature; being in places he wasn’t supposed to be. His inability to keep to himself at the conclave was what started this whole parade in the first place.

“What’s going on?” He asked, “There isn’t discord in the ranks is there?” Lavellan used that quirk of a grin on them. There was always a dimple that revealed in his cheeks when he used it and the sight was insufferable.

Dorian was quick to answer. “Nothing exciting I’m afraid.” He gave Varric a sideways glare. A caution against any unnecessary tongue wagging, “How was the war table? Any more ridiculous demands to fulfil?”

But, clearly, Varric couldn’t help himself, “Nice save Sparkler.” He added in a sarcastic aside.

He would pay for that later. But the Inquisitor, thankfully, took Dorian’s lead and they fell into comfortable small talk. Tiny talk really. Not awkward at all.

“Oh, you know.” He said, “The usual affairs. Angry demon horde. Tears in the sky. The novelty has quite worn off now.”

Their usual pattern. It was familiar and comfortable territory for Dorian, “Of course, it’s all in a day’s work for some people your grace.”

“Are we using our titles again Master Pavus? Because if we are I’m rather fond of ‘His Inquisitorialness’ if you don’t mind.” Lavellan replied.

Dorian snorted, “The day I start calling you that will be the day that Sera can finish a well-constructed sentence without using the words ‘yeah’ and or ‘shite’.”

The Inquisitor relaxed and moved his weight onto his hip as he laughed. Dorian cherished that sound. There was a time after Haven that he scarcely even smiled and it was understandable, but it had left a sizable dent in the Inquisition. Or at least it seemed that way.

Lavellan feigned disappointment, “Damn. Do you think Vivienne would be willing to work with her?”

“Only if you’re prepared to receive a smoking pile of ash in return.” Dorian answered.

The Inquisitor smiled at that, but he cut the banter short to ask a real question, “How have you been Dorian? I haven’t seen much of you recently.” Back to the mothering again, “I was hoping to see you at the tavern, but Bull said that you don’t drink there anymore.”

He could only deflect at this point, “I’m as well as one can be when there’s an entire library of un-alphabetised, snow damaged books to arrange. Besides, I prefer when my vintages have actual names. Last time I asked that barman for the wine list he grunted at me and spat into a glass. Now, I’m not sure whether he did that because they had no wine or because I come from the Imperium, but I don’t think asking him to clarify will improve relations further.”

At that point Varric interjected, “Nah, I wouldn’t take that personally Sparkler, he acts like that with everyone. Cabot isn’t there for the service, he just distributes the poison. Once you’ve had a few drinks down he’s great company. Well, I’d count it at around eight drinks, maybe nine.”      

They both looked to Varric, he had been quiet during their little exchange and now decided that he wanted to join in.

Varric extended his hand in a mock greeting to the Inquisitor, “Hi, Varric Tethras. I’m also a person in this conversation.”

The Inquisitor chuckled, “My apologies Varric, how are things with you?”

Varric smiled in return and answered, “Hawke left Kirkwall without much notice. So it became my job to let everyone know that she’s not dead and make sure that a certain lover of hers doesn’t cause havoc on our doorstep.”

“I don’t know, it wouldn’t be much trouble for her to have another friend staying here. We’re nothing if accommodating here in Skyhold. Admittedly there are holes in the walls, and the ceilings, and in the floors, but we have plenty of empty rooms and spare blankets to go around.”

Of course he would offer a room to another deranged mind. This was the Inquisition. The more the merrier.

“Trust me Lavellan, you don’t want this particular person darkening your doorway.” Varric assured.

As the two continued talking Dorian’s eyes lingered on the faded vines that framed and adorned the Inquisitor’s face, they were strange to him in one sense but perfect in another. In his mind’s eye he traced the patterns of the Vallaslin with his fingers. Did they hurt when they were cut? What god did Lavellan pledge himself to?

Dorian had long lost track of the conversation, now marvelling at how much of a delicate looking creature Inquisitor Lavellan truly was outside of battle. Willowy all the way down to those graceful fingers that could pluck at the veil in a way that Dorian could never hope to replicate. His spells were all about flash and showmanship, the damage was just as important as the fireworks. Lavellan’s spells, however, were well considered and precise constructs. They struck like arrows and were every bit as lethal. Dorian loathed to admit it, but he had fumbled spells in the past because his attention had been drawn towards those strange, arcane marvels.

He was barely listening by this point but Lavellan was laughing again, “Actually, I think we might have another lead on that. Josephine contacted her sources in Val Royeaux, it turns out that a few wayward nobles owed her favours. She’s quite a spectacular negotiator when she needs to be.”

Venhedis! He was acting like a fool. Why couldn’t he just subtly proposition the man, accept the inevitable rejection and move on with his life? Instead of running eyes all over the Inquisitor like, well, The Iron Bull. He liked to think that he had far more class than that lummox.

Then, the Inquisitor turned his attention to him, “What’s that you have in your hand Dorian, if you don’t mind me asking? It’s getting all crumpled.”

Dorian tensed, “Ah- Just a few notes I made on the properties of lyrium dust, tedious really.”

Varric’s eyes were sharp on Dorian and watched too closely when he stuffed the paper into his robe with such haste that it almost ripped. He was forced to improvise yet again. True, he was a magnificent actor when he needed to be but this was a performance too close to the edge. He felt his head start to pound to the tune of his racing heart.

The subject needed a diversion, “Did you receive any interesting requests this time? Acquiring new agents and such?” Was the panic noticeable? He was caught off guard and he was certain that Varric saw something suspicious in his actions.

Lavellan hesitated before he continued, “Ah, well. On that subject, we may have to solve a few problems in the Hinterlands. The Apostates and the Templars are causing all kinds of trouble for the refugees again.”

A sigh escaped Dorian. Partly out of relief and partly because he could already tell what the Inquisitor had promised these people, “And you plan to go there personally I expect?”

It baffled him why the man was incapable of delegating. He certainly had the forces; that was what the advisers were for. But, when it came to matters like this, he would use a grand excuse of the greater good to accept menial tasks like finding that bloody Druffalo. He cared too much and that was why people could walk all over him without a second thought.

The Inquisitor nodded. “Yes, and I was hoping to have the pleasure of your company. Can I tear you away from your nook in the library for a day?” He knew how Dorian felt about endless plant picking and finding lost kittens for stray orphans, but he was asking regardless, “We could go and root out a few Venatori while in the area. Set a few skirts on fire?”

The elf was trying to butter him up now and Dorian couldn’t stand to see those big, green, doe eyes any longer than necessary. “Very well then, you don’t have to beg me. I know a trip to the farmlands without me is unthinkable for you.”

The dwarf gave Dorian a knowing smirk that he would have forcefully removed if they were in different company.

“Where’s my invitation?” Varric asked.

Thankfully, Lavellan paid him no mind and smiled. “Sorry Varric, I was hoping to give Cole a little time away from that stuffy attic and Bull made me promise to bring him along on the next trip out. He said something about tracking down the dragon that flew overhead last time, and then he got this look in his eyes… After that I didn’t want to ask for more details.”

Perfect, Dorian had accepted before he even knew the full, hideous truth. But it was too late to back down, now he was stuck with a Qunari spy and a mind reading spirit. He would have to forget what a sentimental fool he had become and put this matter aside until he returned, the last thing he wanted was an impromptu campfire confessional.


	3. Torment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The torment continues...

 The library was peaceful in the twilight, the birds were dormant and the flickering candles bathed the walls in an amber glow. And, like most nights prior, Dorian was mulling over a glass of brandy he had ‘requisitioned’ from the last Templar camp they raided. The window beside his chair gave him a perfect view of the central gate, most of the main ramparts and the rowdy tavern which was full to the brim. The latter was where his focus had settled as he attempted to sort through his thoughts.

Would it truly be all that difficult to march down there, pull the Inquisitor aside from whatever swill the Iron Bull had convinced him to drink, and resolve this? His prior conquests were far simpler than the Orlesian dance he had gotten himself into this time. It was usually a few flirtatious glances, suggestive remarks and then it was off to wherever privacy could be found, be it a bedroom or someone’s coat closet. But, even if his typical method succeeded by some small miracle, was that what Dorian wanted from Lavellan? One glorious night and then a rather clinical removal come the morning?

He reclined in his leather armchair with a groan and removed his eyes from the bustling tavern bellow. Indecision had triumphed again and his books were arranged before him in silent acknowledgement, it was a good a time as any to start packing. Rising from his seat he placed the brandy aside, setting his mind to the other monumental decision before him. Last time they had ventured out, Dorian had vastly overestimated the size of the standard issue pack and the durability of his shoulders. The memory of his aching muscles dictated that he only had space for a single volume this time. Naturally, he would regret the verdict either way when they came across an elven ruin or ran into trap magic. But that was what the Inquisition was founded on: ill prepared nature trails into certain doom.

As he pulled out the tome on Ferelden wilderness there was the fluttering sound of falling paper. Dorian sighed. Page haemorrhaging was never a good sign in a library. But, as he knelt to retrieve the wayward piece, his hand stilled. It was a completely detached page and the handwriting was eerily familiar.

He took it in his fingers with a small sense of dread and brought it up to read.

 

_'Magister Pavo paced around his captive, admiring his work and the Maker’s._

_“It occurred to me that we did not have much time to get to know each other intimately, what with you trying to lead the whole Inquiry. Now that I have you all to myself, we have plenty of time to chat.”_

_The Inquirer managed to voice a single word, “…Why?”_

_His captor laughed, “ ‘Why?’ he asks.”_

_Pavo’s hand snaked into the elf’s hair and gripped, pulling his head back firmly to expose his neck._

_“Because you are mine and I no longer wish to share you.”_

_With one languid motion, the Magister leant down and bared his teeth against the Inquirer’s supple flesh. The warmth of breath and lust flickered briefly against his nape, a small omen before the pressure clamped down. The sheer intensity of being bitten caused the air to catch in his throat, letting out a strangled whimper. Pain itself was bearable, but he was certain his body was under the influence of some kind of drug. The spells he tried to call just fizzled out or failed him altogether, and that made him feel more vulnerable than the bindings did._

_After a few moments he was released and let out the breath he was holding in. But the respite was short, those lips started to suckle against the red blossom they had painted and the onslaught continued. He gasped as a knee came to rest in-between his legs and Pavo shifted against him. The heat was overwhelming and, despite his struggle to keep focus, it began to pool in various places. That did not remain unnoticed for long._

_Magister Pavo hummed in amusement. The Inquirer felt his body shiver in response to the vibration against his collar, and a flutter of anticipation rose as a hand grazed its way down to his thigh. But then, there was a brief hesitation._

_A voice spoke low against the elf’s skin, “What made this?”_

_The Inquirer had no idea what the Magister was referring to until he looked down. The tanned hand had stalled against the long, hooked scar that curved up against his hip. An answer tried to voice itself from his throat but it was hard to speak against the drug’s effects on his body._

_Magister Pavo realised, “Ah, the magebane. Apologies, the balance is not perfect yet. A working progress.”_

_After that, the hand completed its journey and fingertips brushed against the edges of the breech cloth. Pausing briefly before it delved into-'_

Dorian let out a ragged breath and bowed his head against the seemingly increasing weight of his own body. He had originally leant himself against the wall to read and then, at some time during the story, moved to press his forehead into the cold compress of stone. But the warm flush of the brandy wasn’t helping in the slightest and he stumbled back to take a seat in his chair again.

At first this was irritating. But now it had become more than irritating, it was torture in many definitions of the word. Now, not only was he offended, but he was aroused as well.

The true embodiment of Tevine perfection was, by no means, as enthusiastic about dungeon based sex fantasies. But the evidence of his shame was quite clear beneath his robes and beginning to present a rather immediate and difficult problem. Maybe his stimulation was due to the fact that he had adopted a semi-chaste lifestyle since he left the Imperium. A perfectly plausible reason. But there was no time to quibble over logic now.

A tactical retreat to his quarters was in order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so mean to Dorian. :/  
> Also, because I'm a complete noob at this, I'm struggling to think of proper tags.  
> So, apologies if I make a mountain of mistakes and thanks to those who don't mind sticking around.


	4. The Inquiry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquiry begins…
> 
> (Wherein Varric tries to help and Dorian’s privacy becomes no longer private, not that it ever was.)

Varric watched as the Inquisition scouting party started to leave. There was the usual parade of banners, horses and well-wishers. The Chantry sisters prayed, the soldiers cheered and The Chargers drank. It had become a tradition which had carried over from Haven; maybe even more so now because of what happened there. As Lavellan passed by on his Red Hart, one of the kitchen girls held an embrium flower up to him. The elf accepted it with the grace of a fairy-tale prince, of course, and smiled at her in return. Thinking about it, that girl showed up to the last procession, she was the one who gave them the basket of pastries. Damn, they were good. But, what made Varric laugh was the look on Sparkler’s face when he followed from behind on his Imperial Warmblood. The guy’s disapproval wasn’t exactly subtle.

The people lingered on until the Inquisitor made it to the other side of the bridge and then resumed their daily lives. This was the perfect opportunity for Varric to start a little side quest of his own.

Firstly, Varric took a trip to the library. Walking over to Sparkler’s little reading corner and pretending to take a vague interest in the books he started rifling through. He knew it was unlikely that he would find anything, but it gave him time to consider the conversation they had. At first he wasn’t really paying attention, because Dorian was always accusing people of messing with his books, but then the mage had started acting all shifty when he asked to read the note in question.

He said something about a draft, then he asked about Swords and Shields, and then he mentioned slander. Varric knew that the Tevinter mage wasn’t the most popular of the companions when it came to public opinion. So the idea of him getting hate letters wasn’t so farfetched. However, Sparkler seemed capable enough when it came to fighting his own battles; snide asides from the pilgrims seemed to just roll off him like mud off a nug’s back. But, it was different this time, his moustache was in more of a twist than it usually was and he had sought Varric out to find answers.

The library didn’t exactly have the kind of books he liked to read, so his journey continued to its inevitable destination: Sparkler’s room.

Varric knew, and kind of hoped, it would come to this. He felt bad about invading the guy’s privacy, but, as long as he didn’t find out and this plan worked, there would be no hard feelings between them. Considering the way Dorian had almost broken his arm trying to keep Lavellan from seeing the note, it was unlikely he’d taken it with him. So, logic dictated that the mysterious letter was in here somewhere and it involved something Sparkler didn’t want the Inquisitor to know about.

The west hall was quiet at that time of the day, the staff were busy preparing for the lunch hour and Sparkler’s room was positioned far enough away from the main hall that he wouldn’t be disturbed. Varric pulled out his lockpicks with a not-so-heavy heart and began his work. The picks deftly clicked each of the prongs into place as they had done countless times before. But, just as it seemed he was about to gain entry, a force that wasn’t entirely natural forced the clasps back into place. It was an enchanted lock. How paranoid could Sparkler be? It’s not as if- No, wait. It kind of is.

He let out a small sigh, beginning again with more force behind his prods. But a hum sounded from behind his shoulder and Varric fumbled with the picks again, a small thunk confirmed that he’d lost the progress. Frustrated, he turned to see Sera leaning over him, munching on an apple and watching in curiosity with those overly smoky eyes of hers.

She spoke with her mouth full, “Why are we breaking into Lord Snarky’s room?” Pieces of apple flew all over the place.

This was almost the last thing Varric had wanted, the last thing being Sparkler himself coming back having forgotten one of his moustache combs, but this was pretty high on the list of things that would make this day harder. Sera was chaos in a spindly, elven package. But maybe, as long as he kept her in the dark, he could still salvage the operation.

He answered her, “Nothing. Well, I’m helping Lord Snarky out with something.” Wait, “We?”

Too late, Sera was involved now, “Shift on old man. Taking too friggin long. I’ll do it.”

Sera pushed him aside and set to work with the lock picks herself. _‘Old man’_? Soon, after a lot of swearing, the lock clicked open and Sera raised her half eaten apple in triumph.

“I win! Take that, pissing magic.”

As the door swung open and Sera rose to her feet, Varric knew he had to set some ground rules before this ended in revenge inspired, mage fire.

He held his hand out to stop her, “Hold on there Buttercup. I have plans with this room, and those plans don’t involve any winged creatures or farmyard animals.”

She raised a brow and screwed up her face in confusion,“What? Oh, just little pranks, yeah? Are we borrowing stuff or putting stuff down?” Of course she had missed the point.

Varric sighed, “Just, try to keep your hands to yourself.”

They ventured over the threshold. But, even before then, the smell of gaudy cologne and papyrus wafted out to greet them. Sera was quite clear with her distaste, plugging her nose before she followed him in.

The room itself was more basic than he expected. Sure, they wouldn’t have given him an Orlesian bedchamber, but he expected Sparker to at least furnish it like one. There was a few odd collections of trinkets; things that reminded him of his former life as a Tevinter nobleman perhaps? Books on magic, naturally, and a little wooden halla. Now, that one was definitely out of place. Not that the thing wasn’t as cute as a button, it was a little worn but the carvings were quite detailed and it even had vines engraved into its horns. But, why would Sparkler have one of those?

There was a snorting sound from somewhere and Varric remembered that there was a last minute addition to this search party. When he looked back to see where she was, Sera was wearing a pair of Sparkler’s very extravagant, silken breeches and was laughing hysterically. The girl had an obsession.

“Snobby breeches are the best breeches!” She declared.

And, before he could stop it, she was performing a hideously poor impression of the underwear’s owner. Accent and all.

“Pish-ante cough-ass! Pen-heads! Faster gas! …Frig, what else does he say?”

Varric smirked, but tried to ignore her and concentrate on the task at hand. Visiting all the places he imagined the mage would hide a scandalous letter. Sera’s laugh continued on as he looked under the mattress and then into the overstuffed wardrobe, robe after robe, about fifteen different pairs of shoes and – Who, in all of Thedas, needed that much jewellery? There was enough metal in there to build a full suit of armour for The Iron Bull, not that Tiny would ever wear it. In the end, He gave up on the portal into the fabric fade and moved on to the dresser.

By then Sera had, eventually, taken in enough air to ask more questions, “Why are you sneaking? You don’t sneak. Did pish posh piss you off or something?”

Varric spoke as he rummaged through drawers, “Well, I kind of miss the whole cloak and dagger routine. Ever since the sky broke open it’s been all about open warfare, kill the things before they kill us. It’s nice when you get some time for hobbies. But, as I said before, helping.” Also, trying to make sure that everything was put back in its original place after he was done.

“ _Secret helping_? What’s the point? _Help_ helping gets you gratitude, money and lady bits.”

He tried to explain, “I know, but sometimes it’s nice to do things for people without expecting rewards. Or, at least that’s what I was told that by a guy who used to wear Andraste on his crotch. Anyway, Sparkler didn’t technically ask for my help, but he’s not going to figure this one out on his own. This kind of inciting incident needs a specialist: enter Varric Tethras.”

Sera continued, “Helping, shite. You sound like the creepy thing, _‘Helping. I’m helping’_ always with that. You spend too much time with him.”

Varric paused briefly, “He’s a good kid you know. You could at least give him a chance.”

She shrugged and started to fiddle with a curtain tassel, “Whatever, weirdy-no-beardy.” And, then, she started laughing at her own joke.

At that point, Varric found what he wanted. He rapped his knuckles on the underside of a dresser draw and grinned when it proved hollow. Fake bottom, classic. He pried open the wood grove with one of his daggers and lifted it the rest of the way with his fingers. There was a few more trinkets that looked pretty expensive, probably what Sparkler carried with him from his homeland and- there! Two pages, one folded.

Sera loitered behind him, “You shouldn’t take secret things.” Her expression was oddly serious for once.

Varric picked them both up and put them inside his coat pocket, “Says the elf wearing bloomers. Besides, it’s for a good reason. Trust me.”

With that, their business was concluded and Varric retreated towards the door. He would return them later once he had read them in private.

“Will you please take those off now?” he asked, “I know your love for other people’s underwear is one of your quirks but don’t get too attached, I need you to put them back.”

Sera thought about it, her hesitation was worrying him, but after a few moments she removed the breeches and proceeded to fling them onto the ceiling candelabra. Then, she raced past him with a screech of laughter that echoed and carried all the way through the hall as she ran away.

Well, shit. Now he needed to find a broom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, Sera cameo!
> 
> So, now we have two minds working on this mystery. :)
> 
> Next chapter is the Hinterlands and I get to write Cole. Yay, or not yay, depending on how well I can structure his soliloquies.


	5. Advice

It was time to take drastic measures.

Dorian had a poor excuse of a plan, but anything was infinitely better than scurrying off to masturbate over inferior literature.

These feelings were not about to simply flutter away, as much as he wished they would, and if not addressed they might drive him completely mad. Attitudes may have been different in Ferelden, but he still felt the lingering unease of the Imperium’s views and they were preventing him from acting on his instinct. In the beginning, he had tried to cut off any notion of finding his companions attractive. Not that he didn’t allow himself to appreciate the aesthetics of the male form, he had eyes after all. But, attachments of the impractical kind were forbidden until the world was saved or ended; at which point it wouldn’t matter either way.

However, at some point between all the banter and saving of the free world, he had broken all of the rules for his new life. It was hard to define exactly when things went so horribly wrong, maybe the strange bonding experience of being flung through time together was to blame, or maybe because Lavellan’s kindness was a novelty to someone who had lived in the Imperium all his life. But, for whatever the reason, the elf had taken firm residence in Dorian’s mind and it was starting to affect his work performance.

The plan so far was as follows: Find some time, in between all the killing and saving people, to talk to the Inquisitor without the presence of Cole and or The Iron Bull. In the meantime, keeping all thoughts focused on anything else in case of sudden mind invasion or subtle interrogation. It was basic and incomplete, but he was hoping to improvise the rest when it came to the actual talking. That, somehow, the lack of rehearsal would allow the conversation to flow naturally. Or, more likely, he was expecting the whole scheme to fail regardless. Something easier to make a joke about and walk away from with a clean cut. 

But, as the day drew to an end and the camp was being set up, more seeds doubt began to sprout in his mind. Dorian had no idea about the practices of the Dalish when it came to homosexuality and the last thing he wanted to do was offend Lavellan. He had toyed with the idea of asking Solas once, an awkward thing to slip into conversation at best, but the hermit was always a little overprotective of his fellow elf and the notion was quickly rejected. But, what if the Inquisitor was disgusted by the idea of Dorian being attracted to him? Disgusted by Dorian himself?

In between all the assembling, he had retreated to the overlooking crag that bordered Redcliffe Farms and their camp. Sitting on the edge, he clenched and unclenched his fists as he stared down the sharp drop. So tight that the muscle strained, then released with a long exhale.The tremor in his legs and the overwhelming vertigo served as a suitable distraction from the idea of the Inquisitor's revulsion. He had to drown those kinds of thoughts or he would never go through with it. 

“Why are you singing inside your head?” A wispy voice asked.

Dorian sighed, one of many he had tried, and failed, to supress that day. He turned to face the gangly boy hovering behind him and gave his best placating smile.

“That tavern song has haunted me since Skyhold. Say what you will about the bard, her taste in women is clearly atrocious, but her songs are catchy.” He was praying that the boy wasn’t a lie detector as well as a mind reader.

But it was too late, Cole had found an opening, “ _No thoughts. Just noise. Dull the ache. Their eyes smother me. Get out, get out. How can I keep a secret with those two around?”_

“Cole, please-” Dorian tried to stop him.

But the boy continued, “ _Waiting, wanting but denying_. Why do you hesitate Dorian?”

It was difficult to explain to a spirit, “It’s rather more complicated than it seems.” So, he tried to change the subject, “I thought you were helping the Inquisitor with something?”

“He asked me to collect the blood lotus, but, you have muddled voices so I came to help.” Then, the boy sat down on the rock beside him and Dorian knew that the inevitable had occurred.

Cole left a large gap between them and stared over the precipice, gently twisting one of flowers he had gathered between his thin fingers. The silence was awkward, but understandable, the boy had no social skills to speak of and body language was something foreign to him. Dorian’s hints that he would rather be alone were left unnoticed, rather than disregarded completely.

Though, after a time, the lack of conversation became unbearable, “Well then, how are you finding the Inquisition so far Cole?” Small talk would have to suffice.

Cole, sort of, replied, “ _When did elves become so beautiful?_ _Those sylvan eyes catch mine from bellow and his lips curl into a smile for me as the hermit rambles on about something._ _Maker, is it wrong to wonder how he tastes?”_ Cole paused briefly in-between _,_ “In Skyhold, all of the voices are laced between webs of silk. It’s warm. I think I like it.”

Well, that certainly wasn’t any answer Dorian had expected.

“Ah, good?” How could he reply to that? “Actually, could you refrain from voicing my inner monologues, past and present? Especially in the company of others.”

Cole cupped the unopened bud of the lotus in his hand, “But, how will he know if you hold it too tight? It will wither.”

See, this was exactly what he hadn’t wanted. The boy was trying to comfort, he understood that, truly he did. But, how could… whatever Cole was, understand the complexities of human relationships?

“Thank you Cole, the sentiment is appreciated. But I don’t think that this is the sort of thing that you can help me with.”

Cole persisted _, “Once blindingly bright, but now cold and distant. He avoids my eyes. Ma falon, what have I done?”_

Dorian met those eerie blue eyes between the draping locks of Cole’s fringe. He knew immediately who that voice belonged to.

There was a hesitation, but he had to ask, “Do you hear his thoughts often?”

Cole shifted his knees to brace against his chest, then rested his chin on them while he continued toying with the flowers.

“Sometimes. It’s like staring at the sun, too harsh to see properly. But then, little birds break the light. He fears, frets, is he enough to stop this? The keeper named him her first, he felt pride, he would keep them close, keep them safe. His resolve flickers now, this clan is bigger than the one he came from, a bigger flock to watch over, a bigger family to hold together.”

Dorian sighed and looked to the camp beyond, as if he could have seen the Inquisitor from that far away. He knew that Lavellan was under a lot of pressure, what with the fate of Thedas resting in that luminous hand of his, but the elf made it seem like he was born to the role. All the jokes and bravado must have been a mask not unlike the one he wore himself.

Cole must have caught that particular thread, “Yours is shinier.” He remarked.

“Of course it is.” Dorian replied.

The glow of the waning sun was starting to fade from the sky, little lights started to appear on the ground as the fires were lit and the smell of cooking wafted through the breeze. When they had first began their little scouting parties he had made his distaste for Ferelden food quite clear, but now it had started to grow on him. He was sure that the Inquisitor was partly to blame for that, the elf would put Dalish concoctions into the broth under the pretence of an Elven charm. But Dorian suspected that particular consideration was for his sake when Lavellan repeatedly asked him if it tasted better.

Silence between himself and the spirit had started to become oddly comfortable. Dorian’s nerves had calmed and, even the farmland scenery was strangely soothing to watch. From a distance, of course.

Cole was the one to break the quiet, “ _There’s no-one I’d rather be stranded in time with, future or present._ He meant that. _”_

A small smile broke on Dorians lips at the memory, “The things he says.”

The call of a bird sounded on high and Cole stood to watch it fly overhead, gliding down towards the waiting Inquisition. It was time for them to return.

The spirit spoke softly, “Let him hear the inside hurt. Be bright and brave, be that Dorian. He likes that one.”

With that, Cole had vanished and a fog washed over Dorian’s mind. Thoughts melted into a haze of dimming light and, then, the senses returned in a rush. The cold wind of nightfall numbed his cheeks and his muscles felt stiff from his sitting position. He swore he could smell blood lotus, but it was a fleeting scent that was soon lost. Just how long had he been sitting here?

He had to find Lavellan while the courage was fresh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cole the Inquisition therapist.  
> My head cannon dictates that Cole be adopted (or the Thedas equivalent) in any playthrough I have.  
> It’s partly the reason why it never worked out with Sera and my other character.  
> Well, that, and I couldn’t escape my Inquisition OTP.  
> All he had to do was flick his moustache at the Inquisitor and that ship was back in the harbour.


	6. Sweeter Than Fiction

“I’m looking for the Inquisitor. Where is he?” Dorian asked.

But The Iron Bull was too focused on sharpening his maul to pay any proper attention, “Don’t know Vint. Try down river. Boss likes to wash the herbs before he uses them on the food.”

This was it, Dorian had decided. No turning away. He strode down the slope with renewed purpose and aimed for the well-worn trail.

But, what would he even say? ‘ _Sorry Inquisitor, I realise that this might be a tad inconvenient, but the idea of my tongue delving through those pouty lips of yours has been distracting me for quite some time now. I may be no expert, but I suggest a night of sordid love making would sort that right out.’_ No, it had to be subtle. _‘So, I noticed that you’re rather strapping. Therefore, as two very pretty people I think we owe it to ourselves and the Inquisition to become an item.’_ Hopeless. How long had it been since he propositioned someone? Admittedly all of his previous encounters didn’t require that many words, but still, a small fortune was invested in his upbringing and that had to count for something.

Dorian rounded the corner, he had a few words awkwardly prepared and was about to address the Inquisitor until he was stopped short. The sound of splashing water was accompanied by a view that caught him with surprise and, if he was honest, complete and utter arousal.

He had stumbled upon Lavellan while he was bathing.

In his haste to retreat into cover, he tripped backwards over a root protruding from the ground and fell, unceremoniously, into a juniper bush.

When the element of shock had subsided, he righted himself and stood again. Quickly attending to his clothes, brushing his fingers through his hair and thanking all manner of deities that no one was present to witness that display; he had an image to uphold. But there was still the matter of Lavellan. There was no doubt that this was a serious breach in privacy, but Dorian’s legs, eyes and several other body parts had rebelled against his better judgement. It was really only a problem because of the context. If he had been a little less startled and a little less stimulated he was sure he could have talked his way out of it, made some kind of crude joke about this. But, as it was, his body had betrayed him.

His eyes strayed over that lithe form as it flexed and waded in against the water; the elf was soaking off the dirt of the day and washing his hair. Luckily, or unluckily if you think about it, Lavellan’s waist was partly submerged and the view wasn’t entirely obscene. But there was a repertoire of damp limbs to gawk at regardless, and soon Dorian’s attention was stolen by a very large scar that ran, in a crescent, from the elf’s hip. He had to run his eyes over it twice to make sure it was truly there and not imagined. It was exactly as the story had said, and he couldn’t help but summon the mental image of his parody running its imaginary fingers over that mark.

There were so many questions running through his mind, all the possible reasons why the creator of that monstrosity would know about that particular detail. But the last thing he wanted was to be caught here, acting like some depraved stalker.

Lavellan moved towards the edge of the water and reached for his clothes, so Dorian had to move quickly to avoid being discovered. He made a hasty retreat, with whatever leftover self-respect he had, and made his way back towards the camp.

Upon arrival he attempted to make a swift, yet completely composed, exit towards his tent. But there was a slight obstacle to his plans. Seemingly from nowhere, one meaty hand obstructed his path and drew him to a halt.

“You get lost?”

The Iron Bull picked out a leafy twig from Dorian’s hair, with surprising dexterity for someone his size, and presented it to him with a sly quirk in his lips.

Dorian snatched the offending item away from the brute, “Of course not. I have a perfect sense of direction, among many other things.”

“I’m sure you do.” Bull remarked as he ran his eyes over the mage, “So, you found the Boss then, how was he?”

Dorian frowned at the leering beast, “He was… preoccupied.”

“You didn’t offer to help?” The Qunari asked, “That’s pretty rude of you Vint." Then, he started to speak in a low, suggestive rumble, "He might need an extra pair of hands to spread the leaves, rub the stems, coax open all those tight little buds.”

Dorian could feel the flush from earlier rising is his cheeks again as fresh memories of bared skin flickered through his mind. Words were lost to him; the blood that was needed in his brain had all rushed somewhere more southern.

Bull continued with a wry smile, “Well, if you don’t want to help Boss out with his plants, I could always lend him my skilled fingers.”

Then, he started to walk towards the river. But Dorian’s brain suddenly started functioning again and he seized the Qunari’s arm, pulling him back with all the strength he could manage against someone so bulky.

“Don’t you dare!” He felt the thrum of magic in his skin. Formless for now, but present, “You knew what I was walking into! I would call you a spineless pervert but I doubt it would be taken as an insult.”

Bull shrugged off his hand and chuckled, “You should be thanking me Vint.”

Dorian was truly astounded, “Thanking you-”

At that point, he noticed Lavellan returning from the river and walking towards them both with a raised brow. He had spotted them arguing. Dorian broke from The Iron Bull and went to meet the Inquisitor as if nothing had happened, trying to soothe the atmosphere with his winning smile.

“Ah, just the man I was looking for.” Bull snorted loudly from behind and Dorian’s eyes narrowed, but he continued anyway, “Can I borrow you before some mindless fetch quests whisk you away again?”

The Inquisitor examined the both of them in turn with a scrutinising glare, The Iron Bull gave the elf a saucy wink, but Dorian quickly took him by the arm and marched him away, wittering on as they walked.

“Now, I understand that you have mountains of paperwork, an entire Inquisition to lead and a mildly terrifying spirit child to keep an eye on, but I’ve waited my turn. I demand an audience with you and I refuse to be brushed aside for any requisition demands or flower picking parties.”

He decided that the tent he was currently staying in wouldn’t serve their needs due to the cramped space, so he had redirected their stroll midway and headed towards the Inquisitorial tent. Anything to move them further away from the lumbering saboteur.

“I didn’t realise you were so desperate to see me Dorian, you should have said something sooner.” Lavellan replied.

“Not desperate, that’s such a vulgar word, determined. Use that one in future. I never want to be described as desperate, it makes me sound like a normal person.”

The Inquisitor chuckled, “Gods forbid if that ever happened. But, why do you need my attention so badly? Did something happen?”

They arrived at the larger, much to Dorian’s chagrin, Inquisitor’s tent and he ushered the elf in through the flaps as they continued their talk. He had never ventured inside of the Inquisitor’s lodgings before and took a moment to survey the makeshift room. There was a desk on the left half of the marquee, set up with a map spread over its surface and chairs either side for consultations, on the other side of the partition there was a bedroom arrangement. Lavellan’s Dalish origins were well represented in his decorating, garlands of dried plants were hung from the roof and little stone statuettes of, what Dorian assumed were, the gods of their people sat on the bedside table. Then, there was the small statue of a stone wolf that stood guard at the entrance and seemed to watch them closely as they walked in.

The Inquisitor motioned to the desk and took his seat behind it as if they were having a proper meeting.

 “So, what can I help you with Master Pavus?” He said in a mock authoritative voice.

Dorian sat on the opposite side, casting his eyes over the map and lifting up one of the miniature figurines to examine. It was a perfect replica of the statuette used to mark the distributed forces of the Inquisition’s commander.

“I see Cullen let you borrow a few toys of his.” He had found himself trying to skirt the issue at hand, “He seems quite smitten with you.”

The intended topic was looming over him but his nerve had faltered at the crucial moment. This was not remotely what he wanted to say. What was he even implying?

Lavellan was puzzled, but responded anyway, “The commander was kind enough to commission them. I think he assumes that I can’t function without a war table and a map in front of me.”

The ends of his golden waves were still damp from his dip in the water. A drop of it made a tantalising, slow journey down the elf’s neck, to his nape and then trailed into the collar of his shirt. Where it travelled to after that was only answered by imagination.

No, concentrate Dorian.

He placed the little lion back into its place near Val Royeaux, “A gift, how sweet.”

The lack of sincerity in his voice must have been noticeable, because the Inquisitor leant forward in his chair to meet Dorian’s eye line.

“Dorian, is everything alright?” He asked.

This was getting ridiculous, he had found the chance he was looking for and he wasn’t about to waste it with brooding and misplaced jealousy.

He tried to make excuses, “Ignore me. It’s been a long day and, as you know, I get rather grumpy whenever the mud ruins a perfectly good set of robes.”

“That still doesn’t answer my question.” The elf was finished with all the pleasantries.

Lavellan locked eyes with his and Dorian was forced to answer in some semblance of truth.

“Honestly, I have been missing the pleasure of your company lately, what with all the rifts and impending doom looming over us, and your recent popularity as a religious figure hasn’t helped matters much either. You could say that I’m a little jealous of your advisors and their monopoly over your time.” He admitted, “Don’t let that go to your head though, or I might change my mind.”

The Inquisitor relaxed his posture and smiled.

He was relieved, “Is that all? And here I thought you were planning on leaving us.”

“Leaving the Inquisition?” Dorian asked, “Why would you assume that?”

That was the last thing he wanted to do, for numerous reasons. One of which was the man who sat before him, worrying himself over trivial things such as Dorian’s sulking.

“Well, I know that the Chantry hasn’t exactly welcomed your presence with open arms, and ever since you discovered the library I haven’t been able to pull you away from your love affair with that leather armchair. But, you seem unhappy, and it’s about something more than the Ferelden weather and Solas’ lack of a fashion sense. I suppose I wondered if you weren’t a little homesick.”

Dorian let out a bitter laugh. He couldn’t help it, “Homesick, now there’s a notion. I admit, I miss the warmth and wealth of the Imperium, the food here pales in comparison and there are a lot less slobbering dogs involved in daily life. But, believe me when I say that I am much better off with a continent separating myself and house Pavus. As for those moods of mine, put it down to culture shock and stop fretting. I will adjust.”

He wanted to put the Inquisitor at ease. The truth was much more complex, but he had established some semblance of order as to what he was going to let the Inquisitor in on. One problem at a time. The tenuous relationship with his father, and the reasons behind it, were subjects best left for another day.

“No, the Inquisition is where I’m needed.” He tried to reassure Lavellan with a dashing smile, “Besides, you know you would be hopelessly lost without me.”

The Inquisitor smirked, “Of course. Whatever would I do without someone to throw away half of my wardrobe without my consent. And, yes, I know it was you. The charred remains of what used to be my casual outfit weren’t exactly subtle.”

“Oh, come now. That was in service to Thedas, no self-respecting guardian of the free world should ever wear beige.”

Lavellan laughed at that and the sound soothed him. This was what Dorian had wanted. Time alone with the object of his affections and enough time to ease into that calming presence. No Corepheus, no Red Templars, no rifts, no other companions and definitely no literary harassment of any kind. Just the two of them. The real thing was so much sweeter than fiction.

He couldn’t help but inch closer, removing a little of the distance between them and reaching out his fingers to touch. The anchor was an excuse he had used before, the academic curiosity from a fellow mage would be natural and less likely to seem too aggressive. That way he could freely hold the elf’s hand without any implications. Not that he wasn’t absolutely fascinated with the magic imbued scar the fade had left there, but his true goal was a little more physical in nature.

Dorian spoke softly as he watched the low light of the Anchor, “Something this extraordinary shouldn’t be diminished with poor taste. You deserve better.” Then, he met the Inquisitor’s eyes. The fade glow was an almost identical shade of verdant green.

The mark on Lavellan’s skin had sparked at the contact, but didn’t show any signs of causing pain so Dorian continued to draw the smaller hand into his own. He paused briefly to watch the Inquisitor’s reaction, but the elf never showed any reluctance to being touched. It might have been part of Dalish culture to accept that kind of interaction easily; he was never phased by the constant exchanges between himself and others. The Inquisitor nudged elbows with Varric, Vivienne often rearranged his attire, he arm wrestled Sera, patted Cullen on the shoulder, The Iron Bull tousled his hair, Leliana braided it, and he kissed the knuckles of Josephine’s hand just to make her giggle. All of that was exchanged without reservation.

It seemed that, unlike Tevinter, people in Ferelden seemed to express these kinds of things more openly. He couldn’t recall a time he had ever seen his parents physically touch each other on purpose, and public affection was never encouraged in the Imperium. Touching someone in view of others was always regarded as a matter of dominance or a shameful display of lust. Everything was based on logic, action and reaction, a game of strategy to be won or lost.

Pain spiked in his chest over the memory of that future promised to him by his father; the loveless, hollow, sham of a marriage that was to be his destiny. All of that seemed so far away when that ethereal hand was settled against his own.

Lavellan continued the conversation, “I don’t know why you and Vivienne are so concerned with what I wear. I could kill demons and close a rift in my smallclothes if I wanted, it wouldn’t be sensible mind you, but it would still work the same way.”

There was a mental image to hold onto, “I don’t know if I believe that shameless boasting; I think I might need a demonstration.”

The subtext of the comment passed over Lavellan’s head, of course, but wishful thinking was a hard habit to break.

“Alright, that may have been a bit of an exaggeration.” The Inquisitor admitted, “But, the point I’m trying to make is that those kinds of clothes are perfectly lovely on you, Josephine and Vivienne, but completely wasted on someone like me. Without the Anchor I’m just a common elf who is used to wearing things that don’t rip when someone sneezes. This Herald of Andraste business is all nonsense to me, you know that.”

 _“‘Common’_?” His modesty was charming to most people but entirely irritating to Dorian, “You truly have no idea how dashing you are, how tragic.”

The Inquisitor laughed like the idea was absurd, “ ** _You_** think I’m dashing?”

“Yes, I most certainly do.” He affirmed, “The Anchor is not the only reason that people follow you, it's a wonderful convenience, but not the driving force behind the Inquisition. There’s a man behind the title. The Inquisitor that I see, is a pretty little imp that stands down a demon army with no hesitation, mouthing off to beasts three times his size and always getting himself into some kind of trouble. But he also has a bleeding heart to the woes of people he has never even met, is a constant support to his friends and a vicious tease to anyone who yearns after him.”

The Inquisitor just stared at him with a perplexed expression, none of this was quite sinking in. Dorian was used to the elf’s lack of situational awareness by now, but he was prepared to bring out the heavy weaponry, so to speak. 

Despite a flutter of warning from his heart, he brought both his elbows forward to rest on the wood, chin cradled by one hand and the other tracing paths over the Inquisitor’s wrist. Then, he gave Lavellan the look he used in emergencies, watching the elf through half lidded eyes and smiling with an alluring curl of his lips. It was the face which melted the iciest of loins and rendered grown men speechless.

“Do you really not realise what kind of effect you have on me?” He asked, dropping his voice into a seductive purr, “You are positively adorable, Mahanon.”

People rarely used the Inquisitor’s true name and, judging by his reaction, he might not have realised that Dorian even knew it. But, it was an intimacy that couldn’t be misinterpreted. The elf stared at him with wide eyes, much like that of a rabbit caught out of its hiding place, and Dorian primed himself to pounce.

He couldn’t stand it any longer.

But, suddenly, the flaps of the tent were drawn back and an Inquisition scout leant in, “Sorry to disturb you Inquisitor, but…”

The scout stalled at the sight of them both. The venomous scowl the Tevinter necromancer threw his way had pierced him in place.

“What is it?” Lavellan asked, a blush lingered in the tips of his ears.

The unfortunate scout tried to continue what he was saying, “Ah, we have a situation that-”

But another voice yelled from outside the tent and finished the sentence for him.

“Bandits!” It cried.

Boots pounded in the dirt and cries of battle began as a commotion started in the distance.

With that, the Inquisitor was gone.

Dorian slumped forward and buried his face into the crook of his arm, muffling the scream of frustration that wrenched from his throat.

The sounds of battle filtered through the tent flap and the screams of dying outlaws were, by no means, any sort of consolation. The moment was lost to him now, and it was high time to set someone on fire.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little late due to health issues, but it’s longer and has some fluffy parts so I gave myself a pass.
> 
> Also, I wanted my own Cullen moment with the Dorian romance, so I made one in imagination land. Ah, I love that random scout, such timing. Aw, well, that’s it for Dorian torment hour this time. Join us next chapter for more Varric and a return to Skyhold.


	7. Drinking and Thinking Never Ends Well

 

Varric sat at his makeshift desk in the great hall, or the throne room as some people liked to call it. Unofficially, it was just a staging area. The daytime theatrical performance was mostly for the Orlesians, those guys didn’t take anything seriously unless it was heavily dramatized and had at least three intermissions for wine. Outside of visiting hours, it was a glorified crossroads and people mostly passed through it on their way to other places. Varric was the only one who set up roots there; it was perfect for him. People underestimated what they could learn from sitting near the Inquisition welcome mat.

Bianca’s components were arranged on the wood before him, bathed in the flattering, amber glow of candlelight and patiently awaiting his touch. Beautiful. Lavellan had commissioned some new upgrades for her and Varric was in the process of integrating them. She was a finely tuned instrument pain, so some gentle coaxing and slight adjustments were needed before he introduced any new accessories. The girl was high maintenance but, boy, was she ever worth it.

Accompanying her on the desk was the ever-increasing pile of letters he kept meaning to sort through, and the pages he had borrowed from Sparkler’s room. They both needed attention, but his adoring fans would have to wait, there was a mystery that required his expertise.

Varric had read the story several times during the day, and the idea of someone posting erotic friend fiction to the fussy mage was kind of funny, okay, really funny. But, now he understood why the thing had gotten Sparkler into such a frenzy; the crush he had on the Inquisitor wasn’t exactly the secret he thought it was. Sure, there were still a lot of people who didn’t know much about anything, and rumours had paired the Herald with anyone who maintained more than five seconds of eye contact with the guy. Only a few of the stories had any substance in them, and the one about the lecherous Magister spy was about as close to the truth as any of them were going to get. In fact, the mystery author seemed well acquainted with that particular rumour. This person had clearly taken inspiration from gossip and ran with it in a way that bored society women would; plenty of homoeroticism to stuff between the pages of Chantry tomes.

But, Sparkler seemed to have a bee in his bonnet about people’s opinions when it came to his personal ‘interests’. It was a taboo subject that Varric felt awkward prying into, so he left it alone. He felt sorry for the guy though; trying to get the Inquisitor to take flirtations seriously looked like hard work. The cluelessness must have been a Dalish thing. Lavellan was definitely sharper than Daisy but, when it came to the romance department, they both had that glassy smile which inflicted misery on any unfortunate admirer who took an interest. He wondered if Junior ever managed to get around that. No one from Kirkwall had informed him of any developments while he was gone, but the grumpy mini-Hawke might have some sage advice when it came to wooing a wild elf. Or, at least, a few cautionary tales.

Varric picked up the papers from his desk, skimming his eyes through the writing as he mulled over the details in his head. He could have gone into greater depth, but something important was missing.

This was the kind of problem solving that required a very specific kind of fuel.

He assembled Bianca into her previous build, the new parts could wait and he was willing to chance the dragon turning up for a surprise housewarming party. Then, he set off towards The Herald's Rest. A perfect name considering how many times the elf had passed out on its floor. The guy needed to realise his limits, no one could match a Qunari drink for drink, Andraste blessed or not.

In fact, with those two gone, the tavern seemed oddly peaceful that night. Sera was nowhere to be seen, which worried him more than it should have, and The Chargers were mostly keeping to themselves without their illustrious leader. Though, Krem did offer him a nod of acknowledgement before returning to his drink.

Without all the raucous laughter and revelry, Varric found it far too easy to settle into a quiet table in the corner. He kept looking up, expecting to see an inebriated Inquisitor trying to wave him over and involve him in a _'group bonding activity’_. He had some serious regrets over teaching that kid how to play Diamondback.

After he ordered his drink, it was brought to the table and he took the first, glorious sip from his mug of mead. The signature tang of Cabot’s blackberries was immediate, then the honey mellowed the mixture into a slightly sweet aftertaste. It paid to a close companion to the tavern’s namesake. That, and Varric had learnt very early on in his life that you kept a barman on your good side; he never had the heart to tell his uncle what was really in that pint of specially brewed ale. Another lesson learnt that day: Ignorance is sometimes a kindness.

He cast a glance over the handwriting again. It was nice, too nice for any kitchen maid and too structured for anyone who had zero time on their hands, this was someone who was formally educated. But, trying to match by handwriting alone would take a lot of effort and it would piss people off, namely Cassandra, if he went sniffing around all the Inquisition paperwork. Varric didn’t want to incite any more wrath from that particular dragon. He’d tasted her right hook enough for one lifetime.

Individually the letters were very structured, but a few of the words had a visible tremor to the ink lines. A shaking hand? Possibly an old wound or a weapon strain. That would narrow it down by a few Chantry sisters, but that kind of injury would be hard to catch just by looking. Maybe it would be worth asking Commander Curly if any of his recruits had a weakness in the sword arm.

Varric waved over one of the lovely barmaids, requesting a quill, ink, paper and a larger pitcher of mead. He had to start making notes and he didn’t want to break concentration by having to order again.

Building a mental picture of the author would be the first priority. He hated making assumptions, but he was going to guess that the author was female because of the writing style. It could very well be an extremely suppressed, homophobic soldier who was trying to fool himself into thinking that this was a perfect way to get revenge on the smart mothed mage. But, for now, his imagination had filled in the blanks with a buxom beauty. Purely because of his previous dealings with an infamous pirate who also liked to dabble in friend fiction, not because of any personal fantasies. Not at all.

Motive was something he was having trouble with though. Now, Rivanni, she liked to fuck around with people for the laughs. But she would happily take the credit, she couldn’t keep something like that a mystery for long and the tell-tale sniggering would be an obvious sign. No, this wasn’t a prank, not entirely. The library was too open, and Sparkler would know if someone was watching him with that kind of sadistic glee. No, this woman was playing this game for the long haul and hiding her cards close to her ample, imaginary, bosom. He didn’t know how many pages of the story there were in total, but it was obvious that Sparkler’s suffering wasn’t over yet and neither was the plotline.

Varric also wondered how she managed to plant it. Sparkler barely ever left that corner and there were plenty of eyes in that library to catch someone tampering around the books. Maybe she came in the dead of night? She must have been watching him though, she knew which books he was likely to read and the second page was discovered soon after the first. There was a chance she could have been a roguish type like he was. One of Scout Harding’s recruits maybe? Wait. Harding? 

No, that was ridiculous. She didn’t seem like the type. Too cute. Too busy. Besides, she was called away from Skyhold far too often to have opportunity for something like that. Unless, she wrote them while she was gone? But, she would have a pretty small window to deliver them before she was deployed again. Or would she trust one of her scouts to handle something like that for her? 

Varric set his quill aside and took another drink, draining the glass in mild frustration.

There was a nagging voice in his head that told him to cut his losses and go to the Lady Spymaster. But that would suck the fun right out of it and it would be Varric’s version of cheating, the game would be over within minutes. In fact, he was almost certain she already knew the answer and was watching their little drama play out from her perch in the tower. Giggling with that Orlesian lilt, reading the in-depth report and sipping tea with one of her ravens.

Damn it, he could work this out. He just needed time to think.

The pitcher was empty and Varric called for another as he felt the mental trail slipping away, his quill scratching furiously at the paper.

Now that Scout Harding was a suspect, however unlikely, his placeholder had become more Dwarfish. It was a possibility the author was a Dwarf, there were plenty of Dwarven women in Skyhold, not that he was specifically watching out for them.

The next pitcher came and he poured some out into his mug, taking a brief swig before he continued.

That slight strain in her writing hand could be from working a forge all day, crafting metal and working herself far too close to the edge.

She could be blonde, fair, with the sharpest set of blue eyes he had ever seen.

Witty.

Dangerous.

Perfect.                                                                                        

He let out a wistful sigh and reclined back in his chair. 

Maybe the mead wasn’t such a good idea after all.

Varric crumpled up the paper and began again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find it harder to write Varric, but he's such a brilliant character and I can't resist. 
> 
> In the next chapter there will be a canonical plot point for my lovely puppets to deal with. Expect angst, friendship and another page discovery.


	8. Wits End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know! Uni papers and part time jobs, excuses, excuses!  
> Go ahead and enjoy the long, angsty mess of a chapter. This personal quest always breaks my heart.  
> Urgh, the feels.

After the business with the Templars and Apostates was all squared away, and every skirted imbecile put back in their place, the Inquisition party finally returned to Skyhold. 

Whatever had occurred between the Inquisitor and himself in the tent that night was never brought up again after the last of those scheming bastards had fallen. Not that Dorian didn’t have plenty of chances to broach the issue on the journey back, but silence was preferable when the chance of rejection loomed over him. Lavellan hadn’t mentioned it either, choosing to continue their conversations with the usual dose of whimsy, which made Dorian doubt whether the ‘message’ had ever truly made it across to the elf. But, the blush that flowered on the Inquisitor’s cheeks that night wasn’t something he had imagined. No, his attempt had stirred something, but whether or not it was a favourable reaction remained to be seen.

After their arrival, they soon parted for their respective corners of Skyhold. There was no need for words, the mutual understanding of saddle ache required no fumbled excuses or hurried goodbyes and, as much as Dorian wanted to, he couldn't will himself to linger when his legs screamed rebellion for every second spent away from his library chair. So they all retreated, the Inquisitor to settle his Haart in the stable, Cole for his dusty attic, and The Iron Bull for some cumbersome kitchen wench. Despite his internal struggle for some kind of closure with Lavellan, Dorian soon followed their example and returned to his alcove, curling up into the familiar comfort of his beloved armchair.

Letting his eyes drift out of the window, Dorian watched as drops of a sudden downpour started to tap an insistent tune against the panes of glass. The lull of the rain shifted him into a wearied daze, but a distant voice inside his head took note that, for once, the weather had the decency to wait until his was indoors before unleashing a torrent upon their heads. He vastly preferred being on this side of the wall and, accompanied with the relief that his hair was spared any more elemental abuse, he felt almost comforted by the sound. But, then he remembered Lavellan.

Dorian strained, leaning forward in his chair as far as he could without parting from it, and looked over to the stable. He could see the red Haart was safely tucked away in her stall, but there was no sign of Lavellan nearby. The thought occurred to him that the elf may have taken refuge in the barn with Blackwall, chatting about darkspawn, heavy weaponry, illustrious beards, or whatever one talked about with grey wardens. But then he noticed a figure on the roof. 

The Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, saviour to the four races, sealer of rifts, was fixing a leak. For a stable. In the middle of a storm.

Dorian chuckled to himself, it was almost sickening how much that man cared. A Pavus was never allowed to keep an animal without at least three trainers and a group of servants to ensure no family member ever had to touch the creature, they were purely decorative, so he couldn’t relate to the way Lavellan doted on his mount. What companionship could an animal provide that a human could not? He made mental a note to raise the subject in a later conversation, and perhaps, if he showed an interest in the Haart it might please the elf who was so attached to it. If only he could remember what its name was, he wanted to say Tallulah but that sounded wrong somehow. Was it even female?

A watchful eye was kept on the Inquisitor as each of the wooden boards were fixed into place, as the wind buffeted that foolish man into submission and a secret war was waged between weather and willpower. Feeling a little uneasy about what he was watching, Dorian only returned to his previous position when he had made sure Lavellan’s feet were settled on solid ground again.

After that strain on his nerves, he arched back into the soft leather of his seat and relished the comfort it brought to his aching bones. It was times like this that he was almost tempted to become nostalgic towards his former life, but moral reassurance somehow outweighed the calling of that, particularly gorgeous, hand-carved chaise longue his mother brought back from her trip to Antiva. Such sacrifices had to be made if one wanted to do the right thing; no one ever changed the world from a fainting couch.

His books were exactly where he had left them, left undisturbed in their respective stacks and shelves. It gave Dorian reassurance that no Redcliffe mages had messed with his perfect cataloguing system in his absence, and a small part of him even dared to hope that his tormentor had given up in their attempts to embarrass him. The unfinished work lay before him in several, large, foreboding piles, but he was too wary to continue it immediately and his body seemed to grow heavier to the mere thought of movement. So, as he was too tired to fight it, he allowed his eyes to slide shut at a natural pace and let sleep claim him for a time.

Dorian didn’t know how long he had been skimming the edges of the fade, but a noise from below woke him. The rotunda doors were opened and closed in a flurry of movement and he heard the faint sound of Solas conversing with someone. The second voice slowly grew clearer as his senses returned to him and he the mellow timbre revealed itself to be the Inquisitor. He was hardly in a fit state to entertain, but the possibility of seeing Lavellan had motivated his limbs into motion again. A brief thought was spared for his hair, which he adjusted accordingly, and he straightened his posture into something more befitting of purebred Altus stock.

Then, Dorian watched with great amusement as an extremely damp elf ascended the stairs. Oh, how utterly lost he looked. He dripped a trail onto the floor as he moved, attempting to rub some feeling back into his limbs and, when he started to draw closer, Dorian noticed the poor thing shivering.

But, despite the situation, he couldn’t help but acknowledge the way water enhanced Lavellan’s charm. The elf looked so pale, so vulnerable, and Dorian fought back a strong urge to warm him in the best way he knew how.There were scattered thoughts wherein he suckled at those drained lips until they flushed into colour once more, used his fingers to rake back that wet fringe behind chilled elven ears, and drew that slim form into his arms. He bestowed such heat with his body, his mouth warm against dampened skin, tongue eager to catch stray raindrops, fingers deft as they removed each one of those soaking garments-

“Dorian, we need to talk.” Lavellan interrupted. 

The return to reality was sharp as the elf stood directly before him; His usual smile of greeting was absent, how disconcerting.

Dorian felt the impulse to diffuse the tension with humour, “Missed me already did you?” He remarked, "We’ve barely been separated an hour or so and yet here you are, back for more. What is it that couldn’t wait until morning?”

A sense of dread wormed its way through his gut as he spoke, but he tried to push it down. If this was truly the dreaded conclusion he was anticipating, he would need to mask his feelings with sharp witticisms as per usual. Rejection would be harsh, but he was somewhat prepared. 

“There’s a letter you need to see.”

A letter. Dorian felt his wavered smile return, relieved that his clumsy advances were not the main topic of discussion. 

“A letter?” He asked, “Is it a naughty letter? A humorous proposal from some Antivan dowager?”

But, when Lavellan didn’t rise to his prompts for levity, he knew it was a truly serious matter. 

“Not quite. It’s from your father.” 

 

* * *

 

They had arranged to meet this so called retainer in Redcliffe the next day, but Dorian had to read the letter repeatedly to let the reality of the situation fully sink in.

That his father had decided to fetch him as if he were a runaway child with no sense or ability to make his own decisions, as if the Inquistion were some kind of cult he had joined in an attempt to seek their attention. Dorian could feel his blood simmering. How perfectly worded the letter was, more than enough to gain the sympathy of the ignorant. It painted the perfect picture of a loving family seeking to be reunited with their wayward child. Of course this had made it to the Inquisitor.

It was a struggle to keep the compulsion of magic contained when he was this angry, but he needed to keep composed for the sake of his dignity. The family may have declared their disapproval over his new life, but they were a far cry from interfering and he would rather it stayed that way. No sense letting them affect him to the point of self-sabotage. 

No, he would reserve his ire for this retainer and make it abundantly clear to his father that there would be no negotiation. But, in this act of defiance, the Inquisitor would learn the full truth of Dorian's past in Tevinter. Their relationship, or there lack of, would be tested and he felt outraged at his father for unknowingly involving this-- Were there even words for it? Unrequited homoerotic subtext? Theoretical romantic connection? Whatever it was, it was too new, too unstable to cope under outside pressures. The chances that he could successfully navigate this minefield without revealing his true nature and his intentions towards Lavellan were abysmal. But, did Dorian even want to keep them a secret anymore? Maybe that moment in the tent was enough. Maybe he already knew. 

The mage stopped in his tracks. He had been pacing his room back and forth in a comforting rhythm, until he was interrupted by the crunch of paper underneath his boot heel.

It was half hidden under the side table which stood by the door and, if a draft hadn’t stirred the room, he would have most likely never noticed it was there. Was it pushed under the doorframe? Dorian opened the door to check, but the hallway was deserted as per usual. So, he closed the door and picked up the note to read, trying to convince himself that it wasn’t exactly what he expected it to be. 

Dorian let out a laboured sigh when the handwriting came into view. No such luck.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He hissed.

He gave the page a cursory glance, but the words never quite settled in his mind. It was the audacity of it all. Choosing this day, of all days, to accompany his father in a parade of ceaseless torment; one person denying his future happiness and the other taunting him with a debased version of it.

Dorian could feel the edges crisp under his intense stare but he caught himself quickly.

No. 

No magic. 

He strode out of his room and set upon the one fire which was guaranteed unlikely to decimate his room. Varric rose to greet him as Dorian marched towards his fireplace. But, upon seeing the anger in the mage’s movements, his smile retreated and he stepped aside.

The flames seemed to rise higher as Dorian drew closer, but they retreated back into their original dance as soon as he steeled himself for his next move. His resolve was colder now as he folded all of the pages together, the letter from his father wrapping around the story in a neat cocoon. Almost as if they had come together in one venomous delivery.

He had no more patience for either of them.

Several eyes were upon him but Dorian couldn’t care less. In fact, he was hoping a certain ‘Reverence’ would be present to witness this display and, there she was, watching him with a scrutinizing glare he had almost become fond of by this point. 

Lavellan refused to elaborate on how he had come across the letter, but Dorian knew full well what had happened. He was perfectly aware how Mother Giselle felt about his presence, how she whispered sweet nothings in the Inquisitor’s ear and spun lies to serve her own, supposedly, altruistic agenda. His father had chosen the perfect ally, of course he had, Magister Halward Pavus knew exactly how to manipulate a situation to his favor even at a distance of several continents. But they had both underestimated Lavellan, and for that Dorian was thankful. It gave him no small amount of comfort that, despite all the conspiracy theories and idle gossip, there was a true friend who refused to doubt his integrity.

Dorian locked eyes with Mother Giselle, giving her a smirk which he knew would raise her hackles. Then, after he was sure he had successfully acquired her attention, he cast the paper into the flames and watched for a few moments as the seal started to melt. The hollow indent of the Pavus crest collapsed in upon itself, two snakes becoming one as the blood red wax strained under the heat. It took a mere five seconds to erase.

As soon as the last traces of his house disappeared into a small puddle, he turned away. Varric watched Dorian with wide eyes, a question on his lips that was never voiced as the mage returned in the direction he came without so much as a glance backward.

Dorian walked slower this time as he made his way back through the west hall, he let go of a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding and unclenched his fists with a deliberate stretch of his long, staff-callused fingers. There was a missing ring on his dominant hand, a faint disruption in his tanned skin which marked its former position, he noticed it now and rubbed the space between his fingers. There was a time he wore that seal proudly, marked his own letters with it and sent them off knowing that they would take priority because of the emblem the paper bore. But now he suspected it was locked away in a box, sold to some junk collector who barely knew the significance of its origin. The satisfaction that idea brought him was brief, but powerful. 

House Pavus was nothing outside of the Imperium.

The flop onto his bed was less than graceful, but he needed the coziness of his sheets more than the small remnants of decorum he carried with him even when he was alone. The weight of written word was lifted from him and he was somewhat free, for the moment. He could feel himself sink into the mattress as he let out a long sigh. It had been a long day.

Dorian’s thoughts drifted without purpose now, emotional exertion had worn him down to this state. He was tired. But, the memories from earlier kept resurfacing and they kept him awake despite the pull of the fade against him. Resolution had replaced anger and his mind attempted to summon uplifting images to calm him; ones of the Inquisitor.

Lavellan had been so quick to comfort, so delicate with his words, and it was all rather cloying to be in direct contact with that kind of unyielding sympathy. But, he found himself craving for that soft gaze again, knowing now why people flocked to the elf with their many woes. It was all too easy to fall under the siren’s call of sweet sentimentality, but Dorian wanted more than just placating.

He wanted everything.

Wanted to slide his fingertips across Lavellan’s skin, to trace the planes of pale flesh and learn how to slowly coax out cries of pleasure from those sweet lips.

Dorian had to stop that thought there, because a rather pressing need had presented itself under the folds of his robes.

True, he could ignore it and let himself finally give into the promise of blissful unconsciousness. However, he had just returned from several days of roughing it in the Ferelden wastes. There was little to no opportunity to relieve yourself when the tent cloth was so thin that it might as well have been tissue paper and a particularly nosey Qunari slept a few yards away. The same need had been haunting him for several nights while he was away, especially after the ‘incident’. Putting his emotions regarding this trip and his father aside, entirely aside, so aside that it teetered over the edge of some cliff in Rivain, this would be the perfect opportunity to relieve tension. Admittedly, the act would probably be rather quick and largely unsatisfying, but it would keep that particular demon off his back for a little while longer.

Inevitably, Dorian gave into his baser instincts and warmed his palm against the now-noticeable bulge in his robes; he was only human. The clasps of his ensemble were quick work when he was properly motivated and soon he was touching bare skin, relishing the freedom that cold air could give to his heated movements.

But, he could feel guilt scratching away in the back of his mind, knowing that the day’s events had re-opened a fading scar and given an old enemy life again.

_These feelings are unnatural._

_Your desires are wrong._

_You are disgusting._

_Unworthy._

Dorian could feel himself tensing, hesitating, breath coming out in short busts as the weight of his actions overwhelmed him.

Suddenly, the tendrils of old magic burnt against his skin again, it asphyxiated his mind, cut every nerve and dragged him screaming into dark oblivion.

**No!**

Dorian gripped tightly onto the bed sheets as he grounded himself. The background scent of his cologne was easy to latch onto, it was the closest replica he could get to the one his mother gifted him for a Satinalia long past and reminded him of that summer spent in various states of wonderful stupor. Then there was the rain outside his window, it continued undeterred and he let the sound wash over him as he steadied his breathing.

Long inhale.

Long exhale.

No, he was no longer that broken man. When he came to Ferelden, those ruins were buried and renovated over to build the person who made it this far. He had come to terms with his feelings for Lavellan, started to plan things again, tried to reach out and take what he truly wanted for once. That hard work would not end here because of his father’s demands.

Dorian refused to apologize for who he was and what he felt any more.

Lavellan was at the front of his mind as he worked himself through the pain, strokes rougher than they usually would have been and far bolder. The fact that he was bringing himself to completion with lurid images of a man, an elven man no less, showed a complete disregard towards his father’s wishes and acknowledging that spurred him on more than he would ever care to admit. 

Dorian felt himself melt under precise administrations, imagining the Inquisitor’s slender fingers in the place of his own, teasing him with playful, light touches. He could almost feel that breathy laugh against his ear as his body squirmed against the mounting pressure. The elf toyed with him in a way Dorian often imagined he would, that immaturity from daily life leaking into the bedroom along with the energy and warmth that followed. Their relationship was always a vision of intimacy and a beautiful heartbreak that lay just beyond reach. 

Finally, Dorian groaned out his love's name, not one from the string of many titles and accolades, his true name. Allowing himself the sinful thrill of using it in such a way, a way that none other in Skyhold would dare speak it.

“Mahanon!”

The end came suddenly, intense and without warning. So much so that he found himself panting quite heavily when he returned from the sharp euphoria of his release. And when tears escaped his eyes, running their path down his temples, he chose to ignore them. This was the better choice, the relief had completely purged the strain from his body and he knew that his sleep would be all the more sweeter for it.

But, all the hazy feelings soon dissipated and Dorian was left staring at something on the far side of the dressing table. 

What, in Maker’s name, was a half-rotten apple core doing in his room?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to make a small note here at the bottom.
> 
> The story hit 100 kudos a few days ago and I just wanted to thank you all.  
> When I started I was barely expecting to get any kind of response, it had been forever since I wrote a proper story and writing fan fiction was one of many attempts to get over my hideous, long-term writer’s block.
> 
> So, I’m taking a moment to thank this community for being immensely supportive, welcoming and lovely. I hope I can continue to improve my storytelling for you all in the future. :)
> 
> Anyway, enough gushing, the next chapter we will be visiting Varric on his hunt for the friend fiction author. Who knows, maybe those pages aren’t burnt to crispy dust after all.


	9. Book Club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reasons:  
> I had an essay due and then I got food poisoning because I’m a doof who likes fancy cheeses far too much. THEN, that rode into exam week and I was on campus, in the dorms, away from lovely things such as decent internet. 
> 
> But here it is now, finally, hope you enjoy.

 

Varric was forced to act quickly.

As soon as the Sparkler’s back was turned there was a poker in the dwarf’s hand and he was running towards that fireplace. Every second wasted was a smut lost, and he needed as much of it intact as possible to get any more insights on the author.

Unfortunately there was no stealthy way to dig something out of a fire in a room full of tourists, so there was an audience watching him as he hurled a flaming letter onto the stone floor with all the grace of a Genlock ballerina. Also, continuing to watch as he proceeded to beat said flaming letter out with his boot and swear loudly when a stray ember sparked dangerously close to his sleeve. But, Varric Tethras was never one to care too much about public opinion; just ask his publisher.

Now that he had successfully established an awkward silence in the room and got what he wanted from the flames, he decided to relocate so he could read his prize in peace. The fresh mountain air and the brisk run through torrential rain was good for the mind, or at least a preferable alternative to the prying eyes of gossip-mongering Chantry sisters. But, the best laid plans of nugs and men often go awry; he had underestimated the strength of the deluge. Luckily, his destination wasn’t too far and the courtyard was mostly deserted, so only a single scout had the honour of witnessing Varric run across the grounds as if the barman had announced the last call for drink orders.

It had been a while since he set foot in the main armoury - bad memories of gauntleted fists and accented yelling. However, given his active efforts to avoid the Seeker, he knew that she was currently detained in the war room and unlikely to appear without notice this time. Any emasculating would have to wait until Ruffles had finished the latest rankings in Orlesian politics and Curly was happy with all the accounts from the latest scouting mission. Also, knowing the Inquisitor as Varric did, they would probably have to summon him halfway through to explain something in his official report along the lines of: ‘ _Acquired 6 Embrium, 5 iron, 2 blood lotus, saw a white fennec and disintegrated some skirted people of unknown origin. May have been Templars. Hoping they were Templars. If not, they attacked first’_.

Yeah, she would be gone for a while.

Varric shuffled in, dripping a line across the floor as he ascended the stairs to the balcony, and finally settled, or rather slumped, into a table near the window. The light from the forge below was slowly dying so he struck up a few candles to illuminate his work. It was strangely quiet without the striking of metal and the endless ream of expletives from the blacksmiths, the only sound came from the storm echoing in through the walls. Wooden beams tensed against relentless buffeting and, for a moment, Varric doubted their stability when he heard a particularity loud shuddering from above. But, it eventually subsided and the pouring rain continued a dull tempo against the lattice window as he took out the charred papers from his pocket, setting them on his desk.

Prying them apart was delicate work, the corners were crusted together by the flames and there was a red, waxy substance pooling in the edges. But he managed to separate them one by one, placing each page out individually and brushing away the residue as carefully as he could with rain-numbed fingers. Soon after, he noticed that the first page was written in a different hand to the others and wasn't a part of the story at all. It was a private letter. One which was mostly destroyed by the fire, but there was an unmistakable plea for Sparkler's attention which leapt off the paper. Not wishing to pry more than he already had, Varric folded it and stuffed it back into his pocket to dispose of later. He had some manners left after all, and a few crusty remnants of good sense.

The sudden wail of wind was almost accusatory, but he reassured himself that he had only glimpsed a few sentences and no more than necessary. Although, if he was honest, reading someone else's friend fiction wasn't exactly considerate in the first place. It was all in the name of a mystery no one asked to be solved, and he started to wonder if the end result (sating his curiosity) was truly worth fighting flames for.

“What are you reading?” a small voice asked from behind.

Varric's hand instinctively brushed up against the wood of Bianca's grip, but he then sighed as a familiar ashen face came into view.

It was just the kid. He had made his usual entrance from nowhere and was strangely dry despite the storm roaring away outside. That hat may have been ridiculously oversized, but it couldn’t have protected him from that kind of downpour. Which meant that he had either been here before Varric had arrived, or he did that wooshy, re-appearing thing which usually ended with several dead bodies and a dwarf's mental pledge never to get on his bad side. Either way, it was safe to assume 'the front door' wasn't the answer.

The relief came with a large sigh, “I thought you just got back. Don’t you want to get some rest?” he asked, wondering if spirits slept, or hibernated, or whatever the fade's equivalent was.

Cole eyed the paper with curiosity and leant over the dwarf to look at it, “I tried to rest, but there were noises.” He replied, candlelight exaggerating the sharp edges in his already gaunt face.

“Noises?” That attic was pretty decrepit, Varric figured there were probably a creepy crawlies running around, but the kid never seemed to mind that before. In fact, he seemed to practically embrace the presence of vermin.

Cole elaborated, “She is new and loud. Her name is Margery but Bull keeps calling her Mary. She doesn’t seem to mind though.”

“Ah.” Well then, “How about your room? You do have one, right?” Varric asked.

The kid shook his head, “I don't like it. It's too empty, too cold. I can’t listen if I'm alone.”

“So what brought you here?”

“You did.” He stated it as if it were obvious.

Varric sighed, he knew better than to ask how that worked, “Alright, but go get a chair. I don’t want you looming.”

He scanned the paper again and Cole walked to the other side of the room to pick a chair while muttering something about blankets. Apparently this was a difficult choice which took several moments, but when he was finished the kid took one in his arms, holding it like a farmer would a sheep, and brought it back. Then he set it down slowly to make sure it never made a sound when it touched the floor. Once he was finally sitting on the thing, they continued.

Cole watched the dwarf arrange his notes, “You should put the letter back into the fire. Dorian wanted it to burn away. That part was important.”

Varric checked, but the letter was still in his pocket. He still hadn’t gotten used to that mind reading thing, but it became better the more he embraced and the less he questioned.

“I will.” He assured.

After that, they fell into their usual arrangement. It had become an established routine for them both, the spirit would often just watch Varric run his errands, as he wrote his letters and fine-tuned Bianca. At first it was a little stilted due to the long protracted silences, but it wasn’t for lack of conversation on either side. He soon came to understand that this kind of observation was important to the kid. Sure, Cole could have easily indulged old habits and left people unaware of his presence, but he was slowly learning to become part of the physical world. And, sometimes, he became comfortable enough break the silence, to start small discussions and retreat when he needed to. Whatever he wanted to give or keep to himself was perfectly fine; it was all part of the mending process.

Once Cole was settled, Varric started from the beginning:

 

‘ _The Inquirer curved his back against the wood, arching into the Magister’s touch. He let out a broken whimper and tensed his body, shutting his eyes so tightly that his captor noticed the strain._

_Pavo spoke with a soothing voice, “No.” he said, “No shame. We both know what exists between us. Let the Inquiry go and give yourself over to me.”_

_The elf replied by releasing a soft moan. Encouraged by it, the necromancer continued his ministrations to the elf’s_ **~~[Scribble]~~ ** _nether regions and removed the last fragment of clothing that covered the long awaited spoils of subterfuge. Now everything was exposed to eager, grey eyes and the Inquirer could no longer hide his_ **~~[Scribble]~~ ** _growing_ **~~[Scribble]~~ ** _approval._

_“See, Isn’t honesty a lovely thing?” The Magister purred as he ran his gaze over the elf’s manhood.’_

Varric felt himself cringe. Maker, it had gotten cheesier, and what was with all the crossed out words?

He glanced briefly over to Cole, but it seemed that the crescendo of the storm outside and the black, swirling clouds were more engaging. Good. The content wasn’t something he wanted the kid to ask too many questions about.

 

 ‘ _But, just as the Inquirer was starting to become accustomed to the sensations assaulting his body, a new one was introduced. Static started to prickle against his skin where the Magister had touched and the small hairs at the base of his neck stirred in response. Then, suddenly, there was a sharp shock to his inner thigh. His quivering_ ** ~~[Scribble]~~** _body lurched, his skin taut and straining against the binds holding him to the chair, but there was no escape._

_“Too much?” Pavo asked, “Let’s dial it down a little and work up from there. No sense running before we can walk.”_

_Another jolt of blue light danced against his waist and the Inquirer whined in some semblance of a reply. Words were far beyond him now.’_

Varric skimmed the next part. As much as he wanted to find clues, he was unlikely to find them in a disturbing description of Sparkler doing unspeakable, magical things to the Inquisitors… thing and… other parts.

His interest was safer with the handwriting and the structure. The text was becoming a bit too traumatising considering who the characters were based on, and the fact that he would so love to be able to look them both in the eyes again without involuntarily shuddering. Viewing at it from an agreeable distance, he noticed the pattern of dark scribbles on the page that weren’t part of the fire damage. There seemed to be a growing number of them, most words were completely covered by ink but he managed to piece a few together by the fragments of letters not scratched to oblivion. He took what he could and managed to assemble one on his note paper.

_‘Shaft.’_

Varric snorted.

He could see it now. She would write something obscene, cross it over and then replace it with something more flowery. Maker, he was dealing with two conflicted images of this woman.

“What’s a Shaft?” Cole asked.

Varric had almost forgotten there was an extra addition to his little book group. Suddenly it struck him where he was, what he was reading and who he was reading it with. The whole situation was kind of weird to say the least.

What a question, “It’s a long— Look, I’m not the right person to answer that. If you really want to know, go ask Chuckles.” One he was more than willing to pass along to someone else.

The havoc that discussion would eventually cause brought a smirk to his lips, but then it struck him again exactly what, or rather who, his present company was.

“Are you- Uh, can you read anything from this?” Varric asked, gesturing to the writing before him.

“Yes, I can read.” Cole replied with a curt nod. Then, as if to prove it, he proceeded to read from the paper, “ _The lines between pain and pleasure merged into one blissful entity as the Magister finally entered-"_

Suddenly, the page was forcibly removed from the table before that sentence could be continued and, thankfully, the reading stopped.

Okay, he had asked for that one.

Being vague around the kid never lead anywhere good, “No, I mean with your telepathy, magic, thing that you do.” Varric scratched at his neck with a slight frown, he had a feeling that this was the start of a long, difficult struggle for clear answers. But starting every conversation with Cole was like that.

“Oh.” Cole frowned a little and looked out of the window to watch the rain, “A little. There are whispers. Then, fragments of fighting. Pulled one way and then another. There were good intentions, but— Hush, they don’t want to be seen. Knowing will not help the hurt.”

Varric didn’t know why he expected an answer that made sense, “You’ve got to give me more than that kid. Who are ‘they’?”

“Put down the sword and pick up the pen. The heart is one and the hand is another. It has to be a secret. They meant no harm.” He was firm with that last part.  

Varric should have been prepared for the riddles. There was no use getting frustrated, Cole was trying to help in his own cryptic way and the answers were there somewhere in the endless soliloquies. So, sword, it might have been a soldier or a scout, he was right on that one. The heart and hand thing was less obvious though. But judging from the mass of scribbles, the author was conflicted over the sex scene. But why keep the first draft, why not re-write it without the errors?

Varric made his notes, then continued, “Can you give me anything else?” He asked.

Cole’s face disappeared under the brim of his hat, “No.”

No?

“No?” Varric pressed the kid for an answer, “Is that it? Don’t get me wrong, but I was hoping for the whole ventriloquism act all the way down to how the paper was made.”

Cole started to pick at the threads of his sleeves and crouched over in his chair, the floor suddenly a fascinating object.

The kid was shutting him out, “I’m not allowed to say any more.” He said.

Allowed? By who, the voices in his head? Varric conceded, he was clearly making the kid uncomfortable and it was uncalled for. At least the spirit had given him something to work with; it was more clues than he would ever get on his own. But the disappointment was still hard to shake off. Cole was the keeper of secrets, exposing sensitive and awkward truths wherever he went like the great aunt who drank too much at the family reunion.  

“Alright, I’m sorry. I’ll leave it alone.”

Cole nodded, his posture loosened a little and he dared to meet the dwarf’s eyes again, “It would be cheating.”


	10. Talk To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Urgh, I feel so bad for the long waits. Ironically enough I've been interviewing for writing/admin jobs so I've been all typed out. But the story lives on and I will never abandon it, unless somehow I get abducted or become Beyoncé or something. 
> 
> Also on a related/unrelated topic I will be helping to decorate my city's gay pride festival this year. Yay! :D

 

The rain continued onward through the night and was there to greet Dorian again in the dull light of the morning hours. Sleep was a struggle when such heavy memories weighed upon his mind and the possibilities of the next day hadn’t helped things much either. So, when the dawn finally arrived, his was a haggard form which struggled to will itself forward, seeking the comfort of sleep but knowing that it would be a brief distraction from the events about unfold. When it was finally time to venture out, he directed this talents into making himself look somewhat presentable and went to meet the Inquisitor with a half-born confidence he had summoned from the ghost of yesterday’s Dorian - The one whose chief concern was to how to get himself into Lavellan’s undergarments.

He had chosen one of his more sombre sets of robes to match the day, partly for the skin it covered from the onslaught of weather and partly because he looked fantastic in muted colours. True his mood was foul, but he would be damned if people saw him in something that screamed: ‘I hate the world and therefore no longer care’. If he wanted that kind of effect he would have borrowed some homemade, linen horror from Sera. But his heart lightened a little when he stood in the stone arch of the Main Hall and saw what awaited him below.

Yesterday, because he was in such a state, he had argued that it would be more practical to take Dennet’s fastest horses and ride for Redcliffe at speed, if only to cut his family ties as quick as possible. But, today, he thanked Josephine in hindsight for insisting they take precautions. The carriage was a welcome addition to their little trip and, given the foul conditions, a saving grace for his pride. Singing Ferelden’s praises and proving to his father that he belonged in the Inquisition would prove significantly harder if he showed up to the reunion looking like an old mop. Dorian refused to give his family any kind of satisfaction in seeing his struggle to acclimate with the southern conditions, weather or otherwise.

Though, speaking of acclimating, there was a perfect example of an effortless co-existence with nature before him. It was entirely unfair that, while his efforts could become completely undone, the elf looked the picture of perfection (in a somewhat rustic sense) in whatever element he was put in. His hair would dry into those natural waves, he would have that ever-present elven glow to his features and he wouldn’t have to spend half an hour with a mirror to regain some semblance of order again. Dorian almost hated him for that. Almost.

Lavellan greeted him with an unsure sort of smile, waiting on Dorian’s cues as an indication on how to approach their day. But, Dorian waved him off, he didn’t want mothering.

“Don’t look at me like that.” He said, “The kicked Mabari face is entirely unbecoming on you.”

That earned him a small, cautious smile, but the Inquisitor was quickly called away to speak with the soldiers about any final adjustments to their route. So, Dorian made his own way to the carriage with a swiftness in his step, climbed in, re-arranged any wayward strands of windswept hair under his cowl and watched as the scouts formed into rank. The fact that no one had come to see them off was unsurprising, though he glimpsed Sera sitting at a tavern window with her attention on the proceedings below. Their eyes met and she stuck her tongue out at him, before making increasingly lewd gestures with her hands until he gave up and looked elsewhere. Charming.

After a few minutes of staring at anything but the tavern window, he started to grow inpatient. Nothing seemed to be moving forward, the Inquisitor was still conversing with someone and he could almost bet money that Sera was still flipping him the bird. But, even though the rain was buffeting against the roof of the carriage he could make out Lavellan’s voice as he moved closer and came into view. He was accompanied by one of Cullen’s officers, a highly ranked one judging by the lack of scuffs to his leather and the extra metalwork on his armour.

“I don’t see why I can’t ride with the carriage.” Said the raised voice belonging to the Inquisitor.

Their conversation increased in volume with the wind, as it bellowed between them all, and Dorian was more than happy to eavesdrop, if only to find out what was taking so long. It seemed the elf was in a disagreement with the commanding officer, a last ditch attempt to bring his beloved mount despite how things had been arranged, and Dorian could see the soldier deliberating with himself on how to deny the beloved Herald of Andraste his demands.

“But, your grace,” The soldier tried to explain, “Our orders were to escort you inside the carriage. It’s for your safety. If you were to ride, we would have to arrange for a larger task force to accompany you.”

Dorian smirked, he had never seen Lavellan pout before and it immediately became his favourite expression out of the many the man had shown him thus far. He looked like a petulant child and it was wonderful.

But, as much as the Inquisitor wanted to go against the recommendation of his advisors, he relented, “Fine. Tuilelaith will stay here.”

Ah, that was the one. Though how anyone was supposed to remember a name like that was beyond Dorian, it was a shame he didn’t have a quill, but, maybe the Inquisitor would find it endearing if he just bypassed the Elvish and called her Tilly. A nickname was better than nothing.

After finally accepting the arrangements Lavellan climbed into the carriage, accompanied by a flurry of leaves, and sat in the opposite seat with an audible sigh.

“Such a shame, I was hoping to see a tantrum out of you yet. The Herald of Andraste has been entirely too demure around his subjects so far.” Dorian remarked.

The elf lowered his hood, giving a half-hearted smile and a noncommittal hum, “Not allowed. The Herald is a paragon of virtue instilled with all the faith of the maker. Only a privileged few get to see the ugly parts of him, lucky you.”

Dorian was about to reply but the driver called out to announce their departure and everything was jerked into movement. Soon, they proceeded through the gates and Skyhold was slowly left behind. Replaced with a view of the vast mountains that surrounded them, or rather a muggy outline that loomed in the rain-misted blur. Whatever he was about to say moments ago was now lost, and the dreaded silence set in as they crossed the bridge.

The Inquisitor had set his eyes on some, obscure point in the distant horizon outside the carriage window and was clearly deep in thought, or at least pretending to be. Either way was equally as irritating to Dorian. Not that demanded entertainment, he simply needed to be distracted from the dark thoughts and doubts that itched at the back of his mind.

“Talk to me.”  

He had tried his best to phrase that so it didn’t sound like a command. But it came out rather hoarse and broken instead, like a plea. Which made him wither into his seat and avert his eyes at the shame of it all. He sounded pathetic.

“What would you like me to say?” The Inquisitor asked, trying to be helpful.

Lavellan was looking at him now, watching closely, so close that Dorian was forced to avoid direct eye contact. He felt too exposed under that unrelenting stare.

Dorian was at a loss, “Anything.” But then his thoughts fell on something more specific, “Tell me what it was like, your life with the Dalish. Your home.” _Your family._

The reluctance was immediate on Lavellan’s features in the slight crease of his brow and the purse of his lips. It might have been unfair to ask him about the home he had left behind, the one that he seemed to sorely miss. He hid it well, but it was obvious the elf was lost in foreign territory, the way he clung to vestiges of his old life. It was certainly something which was often skipped around in discussions with others, as if it was a bit of a taboo subject. But Dorian had always figured that particular omission was due to the fact that some of the more conservative members of the inquisition didn’t want to think too hard about where exactly their saviour had come from, and what he truly believed in.

“It was… it was a good life.” The Inquisitor stalled, but then realised that comment alone wouldn’t be enough, “For a long time it was all I ever knew; my family, my kin and the wildlife that surrounded us. It was a small world but it was comfortable, familiar. We would move to a new place in the aravels, explore its depths, its history and its resources, then we would leave with little to no trace of our being there. So we had no one ‘home’ to speak of. Elvhenan and Halamshiral were ghosts that followed us, but they were just words that had long lost any true meaning.”

Dorian wasn’t a fool, he had acquired as much information on the Dalish as he could find after he met Lavellan, but he feigned ignorance for the sake of steering the conversation somewhere lighter.

“That sounds simple enough. Like a never ending scouting mission I suppose.” He remarked offhandedly, hoping he knew the elf well enough to know that this kind of reaction wouldn’t offend him.

Lavellan chuckled. It seemed that Dorian had succeeded, “Not even remotely. You wouldn’t last five minutes in a Dalish clan, completely putting aside the fact that you’re Tevinter and some Elvhen still hold grudges against your people.”

“Excuse me,” He said, feigning insult, “give some credit where it’s due. I think I could survive a few days skipping merrily through forests, singing to trees and making flower wreaths for Hallas.”

“Dorian, you have a fit every time an insect crawls into your hair.”

“Now, that is simply untrue. I studied the Thedosian insects since I was eight years old. My grandfather, Magister Aldwyn Pavus, was a well-known entomologist with a stunning collection of preserved beetles, he taught me to have a keen eye for anything invertebrate and arthropod. As for the ones I’ve encountered in Ferelden so far, I admit I had an initial reluctance to encountering new species, but now I have a healthy interest in them. I’ve even started giving them names; Jeremy was a simply fascinating creature until I beat him to death with my shoe.”

Lavellan laughed, it was hearty and rich. A comforting sound which, frankly, made Dorian a little giddy and then suddenly become hyper-aware of the distance, or lack thereof, between them both. Their knees were practically touching and, every now and again when the path jerked the carriage, their legs bumped against each other. It would have been so easy to lean an inch or two forward, to place his hand on one of the elf’s thighs and run his fingertips up against the seams of those leggings.

“Anyway, I don’t know what kind of books you’ve been reading,” The Inquisitor said, bringing Dorian’s attention back, “But Dalish life is about hunting, foraging and crafting. When we commune with nature there is very little singing involved, unless we’ve been drinking, then there’s lots of singing involved. But, we don’t sing **to** the plants, more in their general direction… which is everywhere when you live in a forest.” The Inquisitor gave a nervous chuckle and raked his fingers through his hair, “I’m not helping the image, am I?”

Dorian shook his head, “No, not really.” He was almost tempted to tease the elf further, if only to see him fumble over his words. It was ridiculously endearing.

He couldn’t help but consider that, in any other circumstances, their little carriage ride would have been a perfect opportunity for him to air his feelings. It was ironic that a summons from his father and a plan intended to drive a wedge between himself and the Inquisitor were the events that led them to this point. Alone, together, in a compartment that was becoming stuffier by the second as Dorian tried to restrain any ill-advised decision he was contemplating; several conflicting ideas which ranged between mounting the poor man and throwing himself out of the carriage door.

Lavellan started again, “Being Dalish isn’t difficult, per say, but not easy either. Our clan was fortunate, we had skilled archers and luck enough to find good hunting grounds. A lot of others can starve out in harsh winters, become prey to the wilderness or be killed by… well, let’s say that some human settlements still keep old traditions. Our life was good, all things considered, but the hard part for me was leaving places behind. Whether it was our keeper Istimaethoriel who decided to move us on or humans who drove us out, you learn not to get attached to anything, the only marks we left were on each other and that was enough. But, as much as I love our clan, I wanted something more than the assurance that our ancestors were proud of us.”

Dorian cleared his throat, it suddenly felt all too dry.

“Well, you certainly found ‘ _more_ ’. Tears in the sky, angry dragons and hideously ugly enemies. Idealism is a lovely notion until you’re knee deep in darkspawn innards. But, we all have our regrets. In hindsight, I didn’t take nearly enough heirlooms to sell off.”

The elf shook his head, “No, I don’t have many regrets. If I had stayed with my clan I would probably have been keeper by now, spending the rest of my life shepherding our family around the Free Marches and preserving a culture which Solas has now ruined for me.”     

“Meanwhile the rest of us would either be dead or living a life of servitude to a giant, floating pustule.”

Or crystallised in Red Lyrium. The image of Fiona flashed through his mind but he buried it again quickly. No one wanted to be reminded of that misadventure into what might have been.

“I like to think you would have muddled along without me. That maybe the anchor might have chosen someone more inappropriate to lead, a Qunari mercenary with an anger management problem perhaps.”

An entertaining thought, if only for the suffering Cassandra might have had to endure chasing around and cleaning up after that Inquisitor's social mishaps. The current one was bad enough, but at least he was nimble enough to avoid breaking things in expensive, Orleasian houses; one Qunari was more than enough in that particular respect. The favours they had to pull after that incident with the arms dealer in Val Royeaux didn't bear thinking about.

But, almost compulsively, he had to quip back when there was an opening for it, “As opposed to a Dalish elf who worships every god **but** the Maker and already has a reputation for the most hours spent asleep, curled around a barstool. I think the Qunari would be more qualified.” 

That earned him a dry laugh from Lavellan, “Possibly. But, I’m kind of attached to the idea of being Inquisitor now. Though, admittedly, it would be nice to live without having to kill thirty six strangers to put a few flowers on a grave.”

“Oh, what? I thought that was the fun part.” Dorian exclaimed.    

Their conversations continued along the journey, covering all the irrelevant topics they could think of and filling any silence with idiotic grins. For the first time in days, the rain seemed to relent a little and, for the moment, Dorian could allow himself to forget the storm that lay ahead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I’m totally breaking symmetry, but the next chapter is also Dorian continued, but with a cut break. I didn’t want to do a word for word rehash of the entire game scene so there will be a sort of summary/mulling over of events in the next part. 
> 
> But, if you’re reading this DA:I fandom story you’ve probably played through Dorian’s personal quest already. If not, well, you should (otherwise Youtube is your friend). Though, this whole story is pretty spoilerific so I’m assuming those who haven’t played the game came on board with that in mind. Either way, sad exposition of an overbearing parent and the Thedas equivalent of ‘pray away the gay’ tactics.
> 
> P.s, in case you wanted to know: Tuilelaith is a Gaelic name I stole from one of my distant relatives which is pronounced till-yeh-la. Dorian was pretty close.


	11. Maker Above

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I managed to write this out on the first few days off I’ve had in ages, personal things, change of career, etc. But I plan to dedicate my Mondays to writing in the foreseeable future. 
> 
> So, the story lives on.

Dorian had grown up with a certain set of expectations. In childhood he was able meet each one with enthusiasm and his parent’s peers would all rush to compliment the family on his merits. They would tell him that he was wonderful, perfect, precisely what any Altus born child should be, and he lived happily in the illusion that he was exactly what his parents had wanted. That, in their eyes, he could do no wrong.

He was a Pavus, their only son, their legacy.

After all, their first attempt at procreation had succeeded in creating an heir to the lineage. Which was probably a great sense of achievement for two people who so pointedly avoided each other in daily life, both physically and sexually; the one instance was more than enough for them. Now that they had achieved their primary purpose, what was there to lose?

Everything it seemed.

Even back then he secretly knew that he wasn’t quite as flawless as people thought he was. He was instinctually drawn towards other boys, he found more spark in their eyes and felt compelled to reach out to them rather than any girl that dowagers would throw in his way. And, despite excelling in all other areas of his life, an inconvenient truth lingered in the shadows of his mind no matter how much he overcompensated to cover its existence. It was the one aspect of himself which wasn’t ideal; the one thing his family was unwilling to overlook.

Seeing his father at the bottom of those stairs in The Gull and Lantern was a shock to say the least. Yet, deep down, he had an inkling that this ‘retainer’ was some sort of ruse to bring him home and that he would have to face the family eventually. Just, not then, not so soon. It wrenched at raw emotions which had been shut away for so long to see him standing there, Magister Halward Pavus in the flesh, the man who wanted to steal his soul.

“ _Dorian._ ” he had said, in the same way he had countless times before.

It was strange, hearing his name spoken by the same lips that were last heard spitting insults and threatening blood magic. It resurrected a ghost, a remnant of the pure desolation he had felt as his needs and wishes were completely disregarded with convenient excuses such as _‘necessary sacrifices’_ and _‘for the greater good’._ He hadn’t realised that his sexuality was abhorrent enough to resort to a magical practice his father had once deemed unacceptable; that having a son who would be no better than tranquil was a preferable alternative to having Dorian as he was, who he was. Words could barely describe the all-consuming despair he had felt in that moment when he learnt that his own father had planned to reject his existence in such a brutal manner.

But, the worst part of it all was that he found himself marvelling at how drained and frayed Magister Pavus looked as he stood under the low light cast off from the nearby window; he scarcely even resembled the father Dorian’s childhood had once cherished. This man was smaller somehow, weaker, damaged. Which made it harder to utterly despise him, not impossible, but harder. However, the feelings of abandonment and betrayal weren’t about to disappear at the sight of a little remorse. No; there were things that needed to be said, and they were, loudly.

After his initial outburst, events had unfolded in such an unpredictable way. He had expected fury and venom that never came, a bid for his return and another ploy to tie him to a family line he had made clear he was no longer invested in. However, what had actually transpired was an exchange he never thought his father capable of; acceptance and an honest plea for Dorian’s forgiveness. They had talked openly for the first time since his budding years, when Dorian suspected his father had started to notice the undesirable qualities in his son, and come to some sort of understanding. Dorian would remain with the Inquisition under a laboured promise to write to the family; to his mother, who apparently was in fits over dog lords kidnapping her son; and to his father, who seemed sincere in wanting to mend the void between them. It would be difficult, there were still raw emotions in the air, but he was not entirely unwilling – a complete surprise to them both.

And so the trip home was spent in another kind of silence, one that was born of exhaustion and brooding. The Inquisitor had tried to engage in light conversation but Dorian was despondent. There were a few more efforts to console him but, eventually, Lavellan politely offered to give him some space and went to sit with the driver. Leaving him to replay events over and over in his mind, to handle the weight of his father’s words and muse over the concept of forgiveness.

Cassandra was waiting for the Inquisitor when they returned to Skyhold, her usual demeanour a match with the rumbling clouds above; maybe she was displeased with something or maybe it was a good day for her, no one could ever tell. As they disembarked the carriage she called the Inquisitor to her side and talked with him about something that Dorian couldn’t overhear, just low murmurs against the wind, afterwards Lavellan returned to him with a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

“I’m being dragged away to the war table.” He said, “Get some rest and I’ll visit you in the library later.” 

Dorian nodded, that was all he could will his body to do at this point, then watched as Cassandra walked away with the Inquisitor and wittered in his ear, much like an irritated matron would do with an errant child.

His fears over the Inquisitor’s presence at the meeting were all for nothing. The elf was initially confused, which was to be expected given his personality and the way that he was with matters such as love, sex and human customs. But, after having it almost spelled out for him, Lavellan only seemed perplexed as to why Dorian’s sexuality would be a problem for anyone. Apparently even the Dalish, the people who lived nomadic lives in forests and desolate wastelands, were more forward thinking than the Imperium. Although, honestly, Dorian was unsure why he had expected anything else from the man who once triggered an impromptu musical number on the top of a mountain peak. It made a lot of sense, all things considered. Why would he bat an eyelid for something so mundane in comparison to the rest of his mindboggling life, wherein he led his own personal army and battled against creatures which had no right to exist outside imagination?

However, the new mutual understanding also marked the end for any excuses Dorian might have made against taking another step forward. They were two (hopefully) consenting adults and the fact that Lavellan wasn’t deterred by the Pavus family drama gave him hope. There was no denying that they were both attracted to each other, though not currently in the sense that he was hoping for, and maybe when the emotional aftermath had died down he could make a tactical move. For now though, there was a pile of books waiting for him and the prospect of losing himself in a good tome of magical theory was a soothing sirens call.

After several hours of escape in said book, and a few much needed swigs from the brandy he hid behind his chair, the Inquisitor turned up as promised. Just as Dorian was staring contemplatively out at the brewing storm and wondering whether he would ever see the sun again – the proper sun, not the frigid, distant star that loomed over the aptly named Frostback Mountains.

Lavellan approached him but Dorian’s mind was caught on the thread of days spent basking in the Tevinter sunshine, simpler memories of his father teaching him chess in the alcove of their garden. He could almost catch the smell of their impeccably kept dragonthorn bushes wafting by on the breeze, his frustrated cursing making the gardeners look up from their work and his father’s laughter echoing against the stone. He never let Dorian win a single game.

“He says that we’re alike. Too much pride.”

Dorian stole a glance at the Inquisitor out of the corner of his eye before turning back to the scene outside his window. It was childish, but he couldn’t bring himself to look the man in the eyes when discussing such an emotionally charged topic.

“Once I would have been overjoyed to hear him say that. Now I’m not certain.”  

It had become difficult to separate the layers of the Dorian who had once adored his family and the one who resented them for what they stood for. That hatred had defined him, compelled him forward and gave him the strength to seek out his freedom, to join the Inquisition. But now he was conflicted, if he gave into those old bonds it would seem like a betrayal to the man that he had forged to get this far. A regression into the boy who had weaved in and out of the barbed thorns of their rules, who lived in constant fear of being discovered, of bringing shame upon the family due to his unnatural inclinations.

“I don’t know if I can forgive him” He admitted.

It would be like giving the man a pardon for his behaviour, and that was what stuck in Dorian’s gut. How could they simply brush it under the rug and go on about their lives as if nothing had happened? Returning to that time before seemed almost impossible now.

Lavellan moved closer, “Are you alright?” He asked.

Dorian deemed it only polite to finally face him.

He replied honestly, “No, not really.” But he would be given time, “Thanks for bringing me out there. It wasn’t what I expected, but… it’s something. Maker knows what you must think of me now, after that whole display.”

“I think you’re very brave.” The elf didn’t miss a beat; meeting Dorians eyes with complete confidence.

“Brave?” Dorian was astonished.

Lavellan continued, “It’s not easy to abandon tradition and walk your own path.”

He said it with such a forlorn expression. The weight of his own sacrifices apparent, in a display of weakness that Dorian doubted any other member of the Inquisition had glimpsed before.

And, then, that’s where things went so spectacularly wrong.

Suddenly Dorian found himself thrown over the precipice of rational thought. He stepped forward, his hand reaching out, brushing against the soft flesh of Mahanon’s cheek, palm grazing across jawline as the space between them was closed in.

Mahanon’s skin was cold from the mountain air, but Dorian could feel the prickle of familiar, yet unfamiliar, magic underneath his fingertips. He had touched other mages before, sometimes quite intimately, but none of them could ever compare to the thrum of energy that he felt now. It made him wonder if the feeling of static in his fingers was due to the strong link between the Inquisitor and the anchor, or his own underlying feelings towards the elf. In truth, he wasn’t even aware that he was capable of such a sincere, loving gesture. But there he was, cupping Mahanon’s face with such a bizarre sense of reverence that it was almost alarming.

Dorian stroked the pad of his thumb across the vines of the Vallasin which curled themselves up and over the Inquisitor’s high cheek bones. Traced the paths of faded black ink that he had been admiring for some time now and got lost in those, ridiculously big, sylvan eyes. His index finger nestled itself behind the lobe of his elven love’s ear and he let himself draw closer, watching a rosy flush rise to pale cheeks; impossibly pale in contrast to his own sun-kissed and staff-worn fingers. So close that he could smell the scent of Embrium and feel the elf’s hitched breath exhale against his lips.

The next few moments after that passed far too quickly.

There was a great sense of urgency; intense flickers of heat and soft lips being crushed under his own. At one point their noses brushed against each other as he briefly parted to catch his breath, only to sink back into the kiss that he had craved for far longer than he cared to admit.

But, realisation was a delayed stab to the spine as a door slammed shut below and Dorian felt himself jerk back when he finally realised that he had crossed a boundary in their relationship without permission.

For what seemed like minutes, they just stared at each other in some sort of dazed shock. His hands trembled as he released them, a weak laugh escaping his lungs as he withdrew himself from the, understandably astonished, Herald of Andraste.

It was hardly the step forward he had imagined, forcing himself upon someone like a drunken spinster at a soiree. This wasn’t one of his sordid little daydreams or idle imaginings when the candlelight was low and the wine plentiful. He had actually stepped over that borderline, or rather destroyed it with one fell swoop. He would be lucky if he wasn’t thrown from the ramparts for this sort of treason.

“Ah- I apologise.” He managed to stutter out, “Forgive me. That was all rather uncalled for, wasn’t it?”

He could barely bring himself to look at the expression the Inquisitor was making. The only way he could possibly recover from this was to make some kind of joke of it all, something, anything to diffuse the situation he had gotten himself into. Maybe the Inquisitor would be annoyed, but it would be a far cry from being ejected from the highest tower in Skyhold by Cassandra for sexual harassment.

He smiled, or at least formed what he hoped wasn’t a grimace, “I think it’s high time I drink myself into a stupor. It’s been that sort of day.”

And, with that, he brushed past the stunned elf and headed for the stairs.

“Dorian-” Mahanon had tried to say, but the Tevinter mage was halfway down the stairs, vanishing through the door in a flourish of robes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I derailed the speech tree. Sorry/ Not Sorry.  
> Also, I think this may have devolved into something strange. But I have a plan, I think.
> 
> Thank you guys for sticking around and for all the kudos. <3 I hope you enjoy the rest of this story (which I definitely intend to write quicker in future).


	12. Scribbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, apologies are in order, I know. I am, indeed, alive and all I can say is that life happened. It just rolled up to me and was like, “Oh, hey so it's time to be an adult now. Here's a job in which you need to be on the ball 24/7, evening shifts and now you have to save for important stuff. And, just for funzies let's throw in a messy breakup and time out for soul searching. Okay then. Wait, lets break your computer too. Good, good. Tatty bye now!” But, I digress. 
> 
> For those who have stayed around and waited patiently, thank you from the bottom of my heart. But here is the next part, I hope it's okay for you after such a long wait. It's a bit longer and has extra [awkwardly edited] smut.

Something was definitely up in Skyhold. (And thank the maker it wasn't the breech anymore.)

  
The Inquisitor was, well, off somehow. Normally the guy was running around the place like he had a death wish, and leaping off things like stairs were just a human novelty – it was amazing that Chuckle’s desk still stood, considering the amount of times the Herald had vaulted onto it from the second floor. But, ever since that morning he had been shuffling around with a puzzled look to his face, walking into tables, tripping over raised slabs and generally being clumsier than his Dalish roots allowed him to be.

  
Varric was definitely concerned.

  
To the regular Inquisition soldier it would seem that the great Herald of Andraste was probably mulling on the fate of the world and thinking over tactics for his next trip to the civil war torn Hinterlands. But, Varric knew better. No, Lavellan was very much a by the moment, along by the seat of his pants kind of leader; this was a matter more personal in nature. The dwarf liked to think that, as a student in the art of observation, he could pick up these kind of cues easier than others. In the time he had spent watching Hawke, he got to the point where he knew (more or less) exactly which moves she would use in battle and (mostly) in what order – Something that earned him a few extra coppers in wagers when Angry and Angrier thought they knew better.

  
Now, Varric was by no means a stalker, but he couldn’t help but follow the lost looking elf as he made a journey through Skyhold. Initially (and secretly) joining him as the Inquisitor headed down into the bowels of the fort, then making his way through all the winding corridors, watching as the elf looked into every open door he passed by and, eventually, climbing to the lofty heights of the ramparts. The Herald was clearly looking for something, or someone, and for a few moments Varric considered that it may have been Cole – if he wasn’t in the usual spot in the tavern then you were out of luck as far as finding the boy elsewhere. But, soon enough, their search came to a halt in the Library, where the elf stared at the chair he had clearly expected Sparkler to be sitting in. After that, it all clicked into place.

  
“Inquisitor.” A voice called out in a curt bark which cut through the library.

  
A voice which made Varric flinch, instinctively duck further behind a bookcase and then curse at himself for being so gutless.

  
Cassandra advanced past the dwarf’s hiding place, with her usual purposeful stride, and came to a halt before the elf.

  
“If you wish to make it in good time for the meeting, we must leave now. Lady Odell is not known for her patience.”

  
“Yes.” The Inquisitor replied weakly, “Of course, lead the way.”

  
Cassandra hesitated, but only for a fraction of a moment. The schedule took priority over any personal questions she might have asked. If you were standing up – Scratch that, if you were breathing then you were ready for deployment as far as she was concerned. So Varric didn't need to wait too long before emerging out of his hiding place, taking note of the metallic stomping as it faded away into the bowels of the main building.

  
Now, it was time to find out where Sparkler was really hiding.

  
Not that Varric doubted an elf’s tracking skills, but Skyhold wasn't the forest and, when it came to stone ruins, the dwarf was always your guy. There were a hundred nooks and crannies in the old castle that he had already scouted out months ago. He figured that the only one who had a better mental map of the place was Cole, and that was only because Varric couldn't walk through walls. The Inquisitor had already tried all of the obvious places like Sparkler’s room, all of the major linking corridors, the great hall, the underforge, the tavern, the ramparts, the garden, and the most obvious of places in which the dwarf was currently standing; staring at the disturbingly clear ass imprint left behind in the mage’s favourite chair.

  
Unfortunately for Varric, the less obvious places seemed to be Tevinter free as well. It had taken him a long while to make an in-depth search, also taking time to register the other key members of the Inquisition and what they were up to. Lelliana came last on his list, not for any particular reason, but that's how the cards fell. Instead of starting up there like he probably should have, he had spent most of his morning in the all wrong places. And, as he trudged up the stairs to the sound of eloquent conversation, he cursed his genetic inclination to head underground. Turns out old habits die hard.

  
The last few steps were the worst, but he got there eventually, taking a moment to centre himself against the stone wall. But, there they were, the Nightingale and the Mustachio Mage; Having a tea party.

  
He waited until they noticed his presence and paused their conversation.

  
Lelliana was the one who greeted him, “Good afternoon Varric. What brings your to my little corner of Skyhold?” She asked, her smile as deceptively demure as usual.

  
Sparkler acknowledged him, but seemed to snub him in favour of taking a sip from a steaming cup of deep auburn tea. Varric had learned not to take that personally after the tenth time of being ignored so the mage could finish a paragraph in one of those dusty blocks of wasted paper.

  
“Sorry to interrupt you Spymaster, but I wanted to borrow Sparkler here for a few moments if that’s alright.”

  
“Of course. Would you like me to give you two some privacy?” She offered.

  
Dorian cut in, “No, there’s no need for all that. What can I help you with Varric? Has Dagna blown something to pieces with lyrium again?” 

  
“No, not today – Or not yet at least.” He hoped.

  
Maker forbid they would ever have to spend another afternoon prying flaming shards of Harritt‘s equipment from the underforge walls.

  
“I don’t suppose you know anything about the Inquisitor searching almost the entire breadth of Skyhold for you?” Varric asked, though it was a largely rhetorical question, “He left for Val Royeaux about an hour ago, by the way.”

  
The mage paused, but lifted his cup back to his lips for another sip to mask the delay. He was definitely involved with this one. For sure.

  
“This is complete news to me.” Dorian dismissed, waving his teacup in a controlled, circular motion, “I took a stroll along the ramparts first thing this morning. Since then I’ve been enjoying some Antivan Formosa and pleasant conversation with our lovely Spymaster here. We must have just missed each other. How unfortunate.”

  
He then placed the cutlery down at the table, saucer first, followed by cup, the cup carefully rotated so that the patterns on both lined up perfectly. The gesture alone brought up memories of the first week they spent with the guy. When he had stopped a mission before it had even started in order to re-arrange the fastenings on the Herald’s robes. He had also tried that with Sera’s buckles few days later - Once, and never again.

  
Taking all of that into account, Varric doubted that stroll alibi very much considering how the wind had stolen a few errant flags from the outer walls that morning.

  
Nightingale nodded in agreement, “Such a pity. We watched the convoy leave from the balcony didn’t we Dorian?”

  
She glanced at Varric over her teacup as she drank, a smile playing at her lips and an unmistakable glimmer in her eyes.

  
Sparkler cast his eyes away, fingers darting up to adjust his hair, “You might have, but someone had to prepare the tea properly, and I couldn't very well let that ham fisted attendant of yours butcher the flavour. The moment he bypassed the strainer for the spoon I knew that brewing was, by no means, his true calling.”

  
Lelliana’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly,“To be fair to Alphonse, his talent lies with the sharper kind of cutlery. Though I do commend him greatly for his efforts, and so should you Dorian.”

  
_Or he will cut you_ , Varric internally narrated.

  
Moving back onto the desired topic, “And here was me thinking that you’d scurried here to hide from whatever it was that you did to the Inquisitor this morning.” He remarked.

  
That was straight to the point, maybe too much so, as Sparkler went rigid in his chair and the dwarf caught a brief crack in his composure. Lelliana remained silent, but crossed her leg over her knee, sat back into her chair and cradled her cup into her hands.

  
However, the genetic, high-born, resting look of distain soon returned to the mage,“What are you going on about?” He lifted his teacup again, but made no move to drink it, “The only thing I have ever done to that man is provide scintillating company and dramatically improve his wardrobe choices. If you want to find someone who upsets him then you need only look in a mirror.”

  
“Wow, great deflecting there Sparkler. Might want to use that one next time an arrow flies at your face and someone has to drop what they’re killing to save your ass.”

  
“Maybe I wouldn't be so unprepared if some people spent less time fondling their crossbow and more time dispatching the snipers hiding in the hills. Additionally, I would think people would want to save more than my posterior, not that it isn't one of my finer qualities. What about my chiselled jaw, or my marvellous nose?”

  
“See, that's what I'm wondering. Where exactly it is you've stuck that marvellous nose of yours.” Varric immediately regretted saying that last part. It gave him… Images. Images he blamed entirely on that story he had spent far to much time reading, re-reading and deconstructing. Shit was contagious.

  
Sparkler sat back in his chair, the old wood strained and creaked as he did. He hadn't taken a sip of his tea for a while. It was probably getting cold.

  
“I think you should be more concerned about where you're sticking yours Varric. It might get chopped off if you're not careful.” His tone was light, but his eyes spoke murder. Or, at the very least, bodily harm.

  
Varric held his hands up in mock surrender, “Don't get all uppity about it. I'm just trying to help you both out a little is all.”

  
“Well, I would thank you for the extremely misguided sentiment, but neither of us need help from you. Myself especially.”

  
“Looks like you need all the help you can get from where I'm standing. Does he even know?” Varric asked.

  
Sparkler’s face fell ever so slightly, his eyes blown wide in what Varric could only describe as barely controlled panic. The mage's gaze darted to the Spymaster briefly, then snapped back to the dwarf and narrowed.

  
Sparkler's voice came in a slow and measured response, “Know what? Pray tell.”

  
Varric couldn't help but let himself smirk a little in triumph; He was pressing all the right buttons. But it was dampened a little when the cutlery started to noticeably vibrate on the table. Maybe one too many of the buttons.

  
He opened his mouth to continue, to fix, but the shaking tableware seemed to increase in volume and intensity. Clinking teacups started to create a chorus of dissonant notes and their contents overflowed in crashing waves upon the already well-stained wood. The sugar bowl wobbling closer and closer to the edge of the table until it inevitably tipped and the lady spymaster leant forwards swiftly, catching it in her hand.

  
Lelliana took that opportunity to intervene, “Now, now gentlemen. There will be no bickering in my tower, you will disturb the ravens.”

  
She placed the bowl back into the centre of the table to avoid any more wandering, but the tremors had subsided.

  
“Yes Varric,” Dorian said pointedly, placing his cup back into its accompanying saucer with an audible clink, “Do spare a thought for the birds.” The contents were probably undrinkable to him now, because he placed it on the table. Sliding it across the surface, away from himself, by the tips of his fingers.

  
Shame, really. It looked pretty expensive judging by the gilded box it had came from. Varric wasn't a well known connoisseur of tea, but he would have still drank it cold. But, then again, Sparkler had never lived in a hovel in Lowtown Kirkwall where cold tea was the very least of your worries; Where the daily achievement was not being stabbed.

  
With that, Sparkler rose to his feet. Leaning forward into a half-bow towards his hostess. 

  
“Thank you Lady Spymaster for your hospitality, but I have other pressing matters to attend to.” He walked forward to leave, but paused to stand by Varric, “Please try to refrain from stalking me.”

  
As the Mage descended the stairs, Lelliana dabbed at the droplets left on the table with a napkin and started to clear the cups onto a nearby tray.

  
Varric let out a sigh.

  
He had hit a dead end.

  
But, as she finished her tidying, Nightingale cleared her throat and addressed him.

  
“A friend of mine came across something you might find interesting Varric.” She said, “He asked me to help locate its owner, but I’m afraid I haven’t the resources to spare at the moment. Would you mind taking a look at it for me? As an author yourself, you may find clues where I would not.”

  
She stood and walked over to a nearby chest of drawers, dislodging one of the compartments with a firm tug and removing pages from it. Varric let her press the document into his hand with her pale, sinewy fingers and watched as a small, smile curled at her lips.

  
“I’ve been told that it’s a very enlightening read.” She added.

  
After that, she returned to carefully clearing away the rest of the cutlery one by one onto the tray for the kitchen staff to take later.

  
Of course. Varric knew exactly what she had handed him. He didn't even need to look at the handwriting, the paper alone was enough.

  
He hesitated, but curiosity got the better of him as it usually did, “Did you… Read it?”

  
Lelliana walked back to sit her chair, then leant forward with her elbows rested on the table, her fingers laced together to form an arch she gently rested her chin on.

  
“Good luck Varric.” She said with one last smile.

  
And, he knew that was the only answer he was going to get.

  
Well, back to the tavern he supposed. Might as well be drunk for this.

 

 

_The Magister’s breath was hot and hard against his neck. He didn't know if it was the drugs but it almost seemed like a physical force, lashing against his skin over and over._

  
_“Please.” He begged._

  
_The pressure was unbearable, his back now a permanent arch against the wood of his seat._

_  
Pavo chuckled softly against the nape of the elf’s nape, “Please, what?”_

_  
The Inquirer let out a broken whine, shuddering against his restraints as he tried to move his lower half. But his captor was a solid weight against him, grounding him, hands burning trails into his skin as he was toyed with relentlessly. Fingers plucked at his over sensitive ~~ **[Scribble]**~~ buds, the sparks of magic increasing in intensity again to pull out desperate mewls from his throat._

  
“ _Please,” he gasped, “The-”_

_  
The Inquirer's voice cut out as Pavo buried his other fingers deeper ~~ **[Scribble]**~~ inside. The elf leant into them, ~~**[Scribble]**~~  moving himself against them to try and relieve the tension in his ~~**[Scribble]**~~ lower man parts._

 

 

“Maker!” Varric exclaimed.

  
Forgetting for a moment where exactly he was as several people looked up from their drinks and gave him funny looks. But- the fuck- what?!

  
“Lower man parts?!” He muttered at a lower volume now.

  
He rested his forehead in the palm of his right hand, a laboured sigh dislodging itself from the depths of his soul.

 

 

_The elf cried out, “N- No! Not there!”_

_  
Magister Pavo hummed against his shoulder, a tongue flicking out to lick a stripe up his neck and delve into his ear. He tensed and cried out again, the sensation lighting up his veins and sending all of the remaining blood in his body downward._

_  
“I want to hear you say it before I release you” The husky voice in his ear demanded, “Go on, ask me nicely.”_

_  
Pavo’s breath shuddered into a low groan as he pressed in closer. The Inquirer felt the magister's ~~ **[Scribble]**~~ impressive ~~**[Scribble]**~~ girth against his forearm and tried to swallow against the lump in his throat._

  
_“I want specifics.”_

_  
Words were difficult, both the drugs and the sensations assaulting his body were rendering him speechless._

_  
“P-please… Let it go.” He ground out._

_  
Pavo nipped his ear a little too roughly,“Let what go?”_

_  
“The- th- tie.”_

  
_He felt his captor’s fingers trace down his chest, his abdomen, to rest at the base of his ~~ **[Scribble]**~~ length. Brushing against the ribbon that was tied around ~~**[Scribble]**~~ it._

_  
“Oh, you mean this?” Pavo asked._

_  
Pressure was applied to it, the magister's hand circling around his ~~ **[Scribble]**~~ male organ. The elf bit back a sob and nodded._

_  
“Hmm, I could do that, but you haven't given me what I've asked for yet. I'm afraid that's against the rules.” Pavo sighed._

_  
His finger pressed down at the tip of the elf’s ~~ **[Scribble]**~~ organ and released a surge of powerful magic. The Inquirer convulsed, hands grasping at air desperately as he tried to grip on something, anything._

_  
“K-Katoh!” He howled, his ~~ **[Scribble]**~~ pulsing and straining against the ties that bound it._

  
_Pavo pulled back, tugged the ribbon loose with a flick of his wrist and pressed his lips to the Inquirer’s forehead gently; His fingers stroking calming paths through the blonde hairs at the base of Lovellan's nape._

_  
The elf could only scream out pathetically against the skin of his lover’s throat as his vision was lost and he ~~ **[Scribble]**~~ ~~**[Scribble]**~~ finished ~~**[Scribble]**~~. his ~~**[Scribble]**~~ fluids ~~**[Scribble]**~~ ~~ **[Scribble]**~~_

 

  
-And then the ink scratched completely off the page in a jagged line. Alright then...

  
Firstly, Varric needed a second to process. I mean, this was apparently- evidently the last page (He prayed there would not be a sequel). Also, clues, there were clues. Boy, were there clues.

  
And, secondly, what in Maker's name did Katoh mean?

  
Was that Elvish? It didn't sound it. Any other reader would have dismissed this word as unknown elvish slang but Varric knew that the demon was in the details. He had known a lot of elves and been called a lot of interesting things but, from the Dalish lilt to the City Elf slurs, nothing had ever sounded like that. It was too harsh, too clipped…

  
Possibly?

  
Maybe?

  
Varric had an inkling he was cautiously poking at, but the idea of it was almost too disturbing to even contemplate.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, major clue. But, keep in mind, that all is not what it seems~
> 
> Please excuse if there's any extra typos or grammary stuff in these chapters, I spent some time in Ireland typing them on my tablet so it might be a little less edited than usual. Also, previously mentioned, broken computer. Still broken. 
> 
> Just in the notes here to inform you guys, I've decided to do two epilogues (or two parts to the epilogue) one for the writer (her, him or them) and one for my two favourite dorks. :P 
> 
> So, hopefully you guys will enjoy those.


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